Trials of Diplomacy
by Forfie
Summary: Vol. 3: Elder Lyons has fallen ill, the Brotherhood is scrambling as a foreign nation is at their door step, and the first trial in the Capital Wasteland in over 200 years holds the life of two members of BIOS in the balance.
1. Complaints of the Few

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 1.) Complaints of the Few

It had been a month since Elder Lyons collapsed at the opening ceremony of the judicial system in the Capital Wasteland since the bombs fell two hundred years ago. The Citadel went into a panic the second Scribe Jameson was able to get word down the road from Grayditch. Rothchild, for the better qualities of leader, commanded confidence and a clear head under pressure. The first priority was affirming the line of succession, and with the written statement and confirmation of the parties involved of Owyn Lyon's desire it was easy to achieve without argument. To the matter of the Elder's health, it was lucky that Doctor Hopkins was in the audience and able to attend to the Lyons with haste.

The only problem, health wise, was that Hopkins did not specialize in neurological disorders or illness. His treatment for Lyons was on par, skill level wise, to that of the comatose Doctor Lesko. Both now lied next to each other in matching gurneys. Hopkins knew of only one person with any expertise that could assist him, though after the dissolution of the Enclave any of his former colleagues were blown into the country side. Hopkins was sitting in his clinic with the two main patients checking over his notes and his medical journals.

His door opened and the maroon robes of Scribe Mendel walked in. She was adjusting several books in her arms as she sat down across from Hopkins. The spines of the tomes read: Annals of Neurology, Neurologic Clinics of North America, and Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry. The backlogged journals were requested and luckily Arlington was able to supply them in paper form. He looked from his pile of papers and smiled at the Brotherhood of Steel Scribe.

Mendel scrunched up her nose as she appraised the manuals, "this is the best we can do currently. The Brotherhood could offer better facilities..."

Hopkins rubbed his face, "would not matter really. We don't have anyone with the specialization nor do we have any advanced equipment. I'm also afraid moving them would put them in danger, one wrong shift or anything could put pressure on the brain."

"You make it sound like Elder Lyons may never return to us," Mendel was scared by the thought.

"I'm sorry, but it's a very good chance he may not wake up or even gain full cognitive abilities," Doctor Hopkins shook his head, "if only Raven Rock was still on line. The facilities there were amazing and would be well worth the risk of taking a trip."

"We have some searching teams going through the rubble," replied Mendel as she combed her hair back, "but no major returns, the rock really collapsed into itself."

"Underground facilities that detonate from within tend to do that," sneered Hopkins as opened a journal roughly, "and we can't even attempt half of this crap because we don't have active CAT or MRI machines."

"The old hospital in the downtown ruins might have something useful to salvage," suggested the Scribe.

"You don't know how much those things weigh. I highly doubt the Brotherhood would be able to fly into the super mutant controlled ruins to haul an item that weighs several hundred pounds," the comment was meant to be more logistical than insulting.

Mendel rubbed the back of her head, "better than carpet bombing the surrounding area to perform the operation."

"Military wasn't my area," replied Hopkins as chewed the corner of his mouth, "I was tasked with saving lives."

"That's why we haven't pressed anything against you, Doc," said Mendel yawning, "actually, we're looking to offer an opportunity..."

Hopkins' ears perked up, "a change of post? Citadel or Rivet City perhaps?"

"Doc, you know that too many questions would be asked about your background," the sad smile was on her lips, one she constantly shared with him, "not to mention you fit perfectly here. So perfect in fact, we're going to recommend you as one of the justices."

Hopkins mouth spread wide as he opening laughed, "are you serious. The Brotherhood is recommending me, me, of all people to be a town judge in the first trial in wasteland history?"

Mendel nodded, "we thought it would be a fair choice."

"I'm sure there are other motives behind it," chuckled Hopkins as he looked over to Elder Lyons, "seriously, how else could you justify the former head of surgery for the Enclave in the former United States Capitol. There is no way this would have passed under Lyons."

Scribe Mendel held his hand rather firmly, "this is an idea with a lot of thought behind it, Gordon. A lot of people have put a lot thought behind this idea."

"Which people," Hopkins put his hand on hers, "before I get into bed with this...idea...I'd like to know who I'm fucking," Mendel snorted with amusement, "called me old fashioned."

Zachary Zimm was in a warm, dimly lit, hole of the Capital Wasteland that was shrouded in the smells of stale tobacco, body odor, and attempts of incense and perfume. The glass was dirty and the rot gut whiskey tasted like the copper tubing used to condense it into drinkable form. Zimm still tipped it up to his lips, exhaling a little to cause some of the desert dust to fly out as he tipped the amber liquid back to his lips. His eyes were firmly placed on the stage in front of him for good reason.

Silver's Den was the best whore house the wasteland had to offer. It had many patrons and was well visited from all corners of the former capital by men, women, and occasionally ghouls who still had working parts and a want to use them despite the decreased feelings. In the off times from the typical position the whores were in, the house madame required them to dance on stage, privately for customers, and service the men in ways of conversation when not on their backs. Currently on stage was a rather top heavy blonde named Tabitha whose her hip motions to the live band that played sensual music with their mix of horns, piano and guitar (or the roughly put together pieces that could be construed as their counterparts from a time before the Great War) enticed the gaze of Zimm.

Ever since the deal had been made with the warden of Springvale Prison, the three Operatives worked out of the Springvale area. The fear of returning to Megaton was imprinted with the visit from Jericho after the declared independence of Springvale Prison. Zimm sipped his whiskey and recalled how Jericho stormed up to the prison shouting obscenities. Zimm, along with Daniel Roe and J.R. hid within the growing crowd of onlookers. The Sheriff of Megaton was escorted out by several deputies that had remained loyal to Ashkelon. Truth be told, only one third of the former raider deputies in the three settlements area remained loyal to Ashkelon when he announced independence from Colin Moriarty. The main reason being that the pockets of Moriarty, the Mayor of Megaton, were still lined heavily with caps.

It was after a conference with the planned future leader of the Sprinvale settlement that the plan of action for the Zimm, Roe, and J.R. was to sway the local merchants away from Moriarty and to the protection of Ashkelon. A large decision like this, to make a move against the leader of one settlement and prop up another need authorization from their commanding Scribe or Star Paladin. Bael was unfortunately tied in the Grayditch situation, but with the couriered message from Scribe Actaeon and returned message by roving merchant, Yearling was able to agree and inform the Operatives on the news. The correspondence and updates were being traded between Zimm, as he was the best handled to communications, and Yearling at weekly intervals through the trading caravans.

Given the green-light, Zimm had spent the last three weeks casing the merchants of Springvale. Daniel Roe had been gaining intelligence of Megaton through the Stahls and Harden Simms. J.R. had spent most his time within Vault 101, the residents were very receptive to the return of the escort party and their new Doctor. J.R., and the other Operatives, were treated like personal friends by the young female Overseer. It wasn't hard to build a good relationship with the Brotherhood and the Intelligence Operatives, the welcome included rad free food, warm fresh water showers, and clean clothes that were unused by anyone. Granted the clean clothes were newly generated Vault 101 jumpsuits, but the new synthetic fabric felt great against their newly washed skin. The most amazing gift they received was underwear.

In a post-apocalyptic world, the one thing that could be sorely missed would be fresh, clean, underwear. No textiles manufacturers to produce the little piece of clothing meant one of two things. The most common dress did not involve underwear, while some tired to accommodate the luxury item by wrapping cloth around the nether regions. The Vault, on the other hand, had the ability to make or generate certain synthetic goods, like jumpsuits, underwear, freshwater, and foodstuffs. _The miracle of science_, thought Zimm to himself as he drank the amber liquid.

The door to the brothel opened, allowing the day light to stream in for a brief moment. A man in combat armor with a coat walked in. The guard at the door checked his rifle and side arm, but allowed him to keep his blade. He took off his coat and shook out the dust as he put on the chair next to Zimm. The Operative looked up to see the man remove his face wrap to reveal the stone face of Daniel Roe. Roe sat down and creaked his neck as he pulled out a few caps to purchase a beer.

"The Stahls say that Moriarty is planing something big," said Roe as he sipped his warm flat beer from the bottle.

"What do they mean," asked Zimm contemplatively.

"No details, all they know comes from Billy Creel," continued Roe, "Moriarty used his merchant contacts to request assistance."

"Assistance from whom?" Zimm raised an eyebrow.

"All I know was the final location of the caravan," Roe tipped his beer in salute as Tabitha left the stage, "they headed out to Tenpenny Tower."

John Harkness was kicking the sand and dirt into the camp fire to extinguish the flame. The last month he had been on the road. Specifically the remnants of back roads and the rubble desert. So broken was the road and slow the pace because he had to carry his travel companion that Harkness spent more time making camp than being able to travel. However, he did make a promise and saw to it to fulfill what was required by the servant that helped him escape. The comatose raider was sitting against the crumbled remains of the wall as Harkness sat across from her closed his eyes and opened his ears to hear more around him.

He detected on the wind the smells of unclean flesh that were not from him or his companion. The only other reason for that smell would be raiders. Harkness decided not to talk with his companion, it would be a waste of energy. Instead they proceeded as quietly as they could with Harkness caring her the whole way. She was more like a living sack of potatoes than anything else. The weight did not bother him, it was just cumbersome to hold her and keep alert with a weapon handy. There were a few times that raiders thought attacking Harkness would yield an easy victory. The android proved them wrong continuously.

He kept his eyes closed as he flexed the synthetic muscles leading to his ears to help move them a little to adjust his perception. Harkness heard the light breathing from his fellow traveler and the wind beating against the ruins outside. The only sign marker he had uncovered was a green highway sign that proclaimed the ruins had once been Fairfax. John Harkness had heard about a large raider colony in the area and decided to pay extra attention to the noise. The first crack caused Harkness to stiffen upright and his eyes to open.

The second and third cracks caused his pupils to contract. The gunfire was coming closer but he could only hear one weapon being discharged. It was the zap that caught his attention. He moved closer to his travel companion and held her to his body, she had awoken in a fright and was fidgeting. Harkness tried to soothe her by making cooing noises. There was yelling and the foot falls of several people that ran by the ruins hit against the walls as they hurried past. The gun fire was soon replaced by the discharge of energy weapons and metallic communication devices from power armor helmets.

The far wall that Harkness had been sitting against burst into dust and rubble. The girl in the android's arm curled into a ball silently crying. The dust and rubble cleared as a power armored soldier stepped through the newly made hole. The armor was the newer Mark II armor that was used by the Enclave but was painted in certain areas with red. There was cylinder gripped in his hands that emitted a blue light.

Harkness looked up in fear, the first thought coming to his mind was to grab his plasma pistol, but his satchel was tucked between him and the girl, "to locals, non combatants," said the member of the Outcasts into their communication device.

Harkness strained his ears hard to hear the receiver inside the helmet, "hostiles are moving down western road."

"Advise on locals," asked the Outcast soldier as his visor stared into the faces of Harkness and the mentally ill girl, "dress indicates non Fairfax res."

"Doesn't matter Morgan, throw them back," said the metallic voice on the other end.

"No," shouted Harkness as he looked Morgan in the face, "I...I...she needs medical attention...I have trade...I have trade!"

"Protector, interesting development," said Defender Morgan into her communications unit.

Operatives Quin Schieber and Anna LaCroix were finally making a rotation back to Alexandria. They had spent a month living at Friendship Heights. The settlement was now assigned to a Knight Captain and small contingent for protection. The underground tunnels had be reinforced and the walls of the settlement extended to encompass the metro entrance. Ban, once rescued, had been transported out immediately to the Citadel for medical care and recovery. Schieber and LaCroix were sitting in the vertibird as it landed in the front of Alexandria.

They stepped off the transport to see the facade of their long awaited home. Schieber gave a coy smile to LaCroix and held the door open for her as they walked in to their home and office. Waiting for them were Knight Captain Galeas and Knight Bors. They greeted them warmly and ushered them in to the cafeteria for warm vittles. Elias served the food for them as he leaned heavily on his crutch. As he rounded the table to serve LaCroix and spoke softly into her ear.

"After this, Jaan, I would like to see you," he smiled a little and tilted his head closer, "I have a welcome home present for you."

LaCroix smiled a little and nodded. After they finished eating she made her way to the servant quarters and knocked on the closed door. Elias answered with a large smile and welcomed her in, he took a seat on his bunk bed.

"Welcome back," he said as she took a seat in an empty chair near him, "I overheard this settlement you were stationed at went though a tough time. Did you pray, Anna?"

Anna's smile fluttered for a minute and she nodded, "continuously."

"Then it seems The One has heard you," answered Elias as he put his hand on his knee, "I hate that violence leads to religion, but it's better to have some beliefs than to live a whole life in ignorance...what my tribe called jahilyyah. You, unlike many others, seem to have left that stage."

Anna was a little perplexed and it showed on her face, "Elias, I would call it more of a...spirituality than religion. Somehow, God willing, we survived and Knight Ban was able to make it out alive as well. It was...miraculous. To say the least."

"I agree, Anna, with you," Elias said and moved a bundle forward, "and since you've recognized this spirituality, I'd like to give you something to enhance it. The words don't matter at this time, but the feeling and emotion you express with them does. I hope you'll use this prayer mat."

He pushed the rolled up prayer mat to her. She picked it up and smiled. Thanking Elias with hug and a kiss on his cheek. LaCroix walked to her suite, opened the door and flopped onto the bed. She kicked off her boots and put her feet up on the bed. Her head was lying on the pillows, she turned to look at the prayer mat on her side table as there was a knock on the door.

Quin Schieber's shaggy head was leaning against the door frame of Anna LaCroix's suite. He held a bottle of wine in his hands as his eyes looked over her from foot to toe. Schieber entered the room and closed the door behind him, making certain to place the bolt lock. He held the bottle of wine and two glasses up.

"Thought we should celebrate ourselves, Ms. LaCroix," he said in a playful voice as he sat on the bed and uncorked the wine to let it breath.

Anna sat up with her hand on his back as it rubbed it's way to drape her arm on his shoulders; LaCroix nuzzled his neck, her thick curly hair draped against his shoulders, "sounds like a brilliant idea, Mr. Schieber."

He put the wine on the side table and turned his head to kiss her, "I'm just... so... happy that things didn't wind up worse," his hand went right to her hip and massaged it as he leaned into kiss her again.

LaCroix put a finger on his lips and looked into his eyes, "just be happy, no reason, Quin. Just happy."

Quin kissed it and then slide the finger with the rest of her hand against his stubbled cheek, "I let my mouth get away from me sometimes."

Anna took her free hand and entwined her fingers in his shaggy hair, "then let's put your mouth to better use," she leaned into his body and kissed him deeply.

The Citadel was bustling with activity. Scribe Rothchild, as acting Elder, was trying to increase the expanse of the Citadel. Within the month, he had ordered the previous unexplored areas of the former Pentagon to be examined and stocked. On top of this, he also pushed for the creation of a dock in front of the plaza and to the right of the Taft Tunnel entrance and bridge to Project Purity. Yearling had drawn up the plans for the port along with Bowditch to give them enough security. The Knights and Scribes had worked hard for the month and created a massive platform with multiple turrets and a lock system that used some of the seized Enclave technology.

The forcefields were used to lock a ship in place when it traveled through the narrow pass the dock was embanked upon. There was only one active ship known on in the wasteland, and it belonged to headstrong girl named Nadine. The _Duchess Gambit_ never ventured far up the Potomac, and with the new security measures built at the Citadel, she probably never would. Many of the Knights, and some of the Scribes, saw this massive dock that ran nearly four hundred yards wide with new and vital Enclave technology as massive expenditure with minimal reasoning.

Scribe Yearling, with the cautious support of Scribe Bowditch from the Order of the Shield, planned for the worst. She never hoped for the best, instead she saw it up to her to make the best situation arise, and the better situation from allowing a foreign force with a superior naval force enter into close distance of the Citadel would be with energy weapons primed, powered, and ready to put a hole in their hull and scuttle the ship in the water way. Bowditch was of similar mind, though not as graphically explained.

Operative Hannah Newton was sitting on a bench on the new dock as the Brotherhood Knights continued to pass-by making fixes and the Scribes continued to examine and reexamine the new security dock. Next to the bench, though in a wheel chair and not on the actual bench, sat Knight Michael Ban with his whole leg cast and his arm in a sling. He sighed heavily as he looked out on the Potomac.

"Do you realize the fights that have been waged here," he said to his injured companion.

Newton nodded and turned to look at the man beside her, "we've been in four so far in these past few months. We've barely been up for a year and already we're considered veterans...Have you seen the new children?"

"Their greener than you lot were," he said with a crooked smile that made his scar stretch a little, "but I was referring to more than these last few months or years even. I meant nearly three-hundred and fifty years ago, even four hundred. You remember when we were in the Mall?"

Newton nodded, "the Washington Monument, the runaway slave settlement, even the ghouls. What about them, Ban?"

"There was a major war that occurred," he said as he looked over to where the Mall would be, "I've had a lot free time and I've been reviewing history of the area from the Arlington archive. It was war that continued even after the peace was finished. In the late summer of 1814, the British Empire burnt the Capital, this Capital, to the ground. Everything needed to be rebuilt and they were able to, after moving out the occupiers, and winning the wall."

"Ban, I understand the parallels, but what does this have to do with us, with what's going on now?" She asked trying to find the meaning behind the War of 1812.

"Perhaps something, probably nothing," he said wistfully, "but this land is soiled in war, blood, and sweat. It has a history."

Newton nibbled her bottom lip, "Ban, you're just weird sometimes."

"And I love my chauffeur as well," he said with a coy smile.

"My cue to wheel your broken ass back to B-Ring?" She asked with a helpful smile.

Scribe Yearling had walked up to them and sat on the bench right next to Newton putting her in the middle of the bench. The scribe took out what looked like a simple sandwich and bit into it. She offered the other half to Newton and Ban, both turned down the offer. Brushing her sandy blond hair to the side she turned to talk with both of them.

"I imagine you have many questions as to what is happening these days," she said chewing on her sandwich.

"Apart from the status of Elder Lyons," said Newton, "or the expense put to making this dock, or let me guess, why you haven't recalled all our operatives..."

"Operative, that'll do," scolded Ban with a glare.

"I was referring to the dock," Yearling stomped her foot on the metal and compacted earth of the dock, "as you, and the rest of this fucking gaggle of gossips, know we have made contact with a foreign power. They will be arriving shortly and with a large vessel. This is a small battleship in their flotilla based on an aircraft carrier. This is a considerable force that has been sitting in the Chesapeake and traveling from up north for a while. I have a special task for you, as we are still holding them in the Chesapeake to finish this dock. We'll hold them off as long as we can, I fear that they will be here soon and we will not be prepared. Little is known of the north, and this Commonwealth. I'd like you two to read all the information on them from the Arlington archive, Pentagon archive, and possibly VaultTec archives."

"What are we looking for," asked Ban.

"Anything, history, politics, culture. We need to know it all," the scribe said, "there will be two hundred years of history we don't know about. But all the information before that, we need to know."

"We'll get on it, chief," said Ban as he tapped Newton to roll him up to the Plaza and back into the Citadel, they were three quarts of the way back when he turned to her and said, "Yearling's scared."

"Aren't most eggheads," asked Newton as she repeated the normal rhetoric of the Brotherhood.

"Yearling's different," Ban said, "manipulative, willful, and like a shrew. She's tenacious. Something like this...it has her spooked."

"And who best to cure a spooked scribe than her own group of spooks," said Newton with a smile as she pushed the wheel chair faster.

Lolli Pop was sitting in the jail cell chewing on brahmin jerky. Juan Alvarado had awaken as well, his arm still pained him something awful and it was in sling while the doctor still checked him on a weekly basis. The Prisoner was in the cell as well, but usually kept as far from the other two as possible. It was a reasonable thing for him to do as Pop and Alvarado still considered themselves part of the Brotherhood of Steel. The Knights kept watch closely on them, the Grayditch guards were not to kind to the prisoners, especially after the incident a month ago.

The injured guard, Jonas, refused to take a leave from duty. His arm was well bandaged and in a sling like Alvarado's. He kept on stealing dirty looks to cell for the past month. When the news from Marshall Lawson came that they were not going to separate the inmates to different cells, he had become upset to verbally accosting the regulator head of the Grayditch guards. Lawson chewed him in front of the other men for planning something illegal under his command. The Regulator attempted to keep peace within his ranks by promising any action against the prisoners meant becoming one themselves.

Star Paladin Cristano Bael also made certain that his Knights were well looked after and on eight hour guard duty shift with plenty of rest and relaxation time in town. The local hotel was doing well and taking cap over fist from the representation from the Citadel. Beyond that, the news of the trial and illness of Elder Lyons traveled far on the backs of brahmin and roving traders. Multiple representatives from far and wide of the wasteland were making their way to Grayditch. Random wastelanders, wanders, and official representatives from settlements had made their way to the small settlement that a few years ago was nothing but smoldering structures.

This was the first time, in anyone's collective memory, that so many individuals decided to gather at one place from such a wide expanse of territory. Mayor Henry Fleet was excited, he had been in meetings for weeks with official representatives and those seeking residence. Old structures that had not been explored were now being forcible opened official for residence and unofficially for squatters. The guards were pulling extra duty and examining places and the constraint on food items. Several raids had occurred that required the expulsion of unruly elements that included raiders, thieves and smugglers. The smugglers had been the worst, bring with them weapons and tainted foodstuffs. Marshall Lawson remembered the worst items that were brought in came from a small band of cannibals.

They were selling human flesh clothing, meat and bone jewelery as if it were brahmin, mole rat, or yao gue. The first tip came to Lawson when a distraught mother presented a cup made from a clearly human skull with teeth marks. He took several man to the structure they made as a store and killed eleven of the twelve. As he removed the fingers from the dead from their right hand he had his guards work over the last man. Lawson faced the bruised and beaten cannibal that was tied to a chair. He threw the fingers on the table, told the man that the Regulators were watching over this town and to tell the rest of his human eating kin that they were not welcome. Then, to make certain the point was clear Lawson carved a C into his forehead and removed his thumbs.

If anyone were to question the word of Lawson, they were clearly dumb or had a death wish. This past month propelled him into the limelight as no one wished to cross him. No one that was except for Star Paladin Cristano Bael. The two would often find each other yelling about the treatment of the prisoners and security of the town. Bael and Lawson would exchange words in the regulator's office. They were in the office yet another time, but tried to keep their temper checked. Bael paced around in his heavy power armor as Lawson sat back with his feet up.

"This town has become chaos," commented Bael as he rubbed his cleanly shaved cheeks with is armored hand, "no order what-so-ever."

"I won't take that as insult, even though I should," Lawson was puffing away on his usual Drayden cigar, "things have certainly become interesting around here. Did you hear what happened earlier this morning?"

Bael raised an eyebrow, not really caring about local happenings, "you're going to tell me I bet."

"These two guys, visitors, got into a fight at the saloon and decided to settle it with a duel," began the lawman.

"I bet the doctor and undertaker are happy with the way things have been going in town," snorted Bael.

"Hokins and Styx aside, my men were able to break up the duel before it could take place on Main Street and kill an innocent bystander," he took a break to inhale, "I take it my guy told the two of them that dueling is illegal in town."

"A smart local, who would have thought of that," sneered Bael as he pursed his lips.

"Continuing," said Lawson as his withered eyes harden more, "he suggested they take the duel out of town to the sewer way station. Low and behold, both men shoot each other dead. I have to arrest my own man and put him in the stockade's for a week."

"I'd have done more than that," said Bael with a laugh at his own ideas, "like make him wear one, or both, of the men."

"Health hazard, not to mention I'm not that cruel," he said cracking his knuckles, "a week bareback in the sun will teach him not to suggest where these fools can kill each other. Just make certain not to kill anyone in this town, God-darnit."

"And I'm the cruel one," smiled Bael, "when are you regulators going to get it? Stick with collecting fingers. We know how to handle _real_ security."

"This town has done fine without you," Lawson tip his ash into a little tray, "our law and order maybe different from yours. But let's see what happens with this trial."

"I've been meaning to speak with you about that," said Bael as he sat down for the first time.

Lawson removed his brahmin skin hat, his limp sweaty hair framing his face, as he lifted the eyebrow near his crescent scar, "don't tell me the Brotherhood is getting cold feet on this just now."

"Well, that's not it," the operational head of BIOS said, "it's more about your opinion of those locked up. Between Juan Alvarado, Lolli Pop, and this unnamed prisoner."

"What kind of a name is Lolli Pop," asked Lawson as he patted his sweaty hair back, "to be honest with you...you're boys have been too polite. From what I gather, Juan wasn't even conscious when Lesko was taken down. Pop hasn't committed murder, yet. Only time will tell on that one. That other one, Lord know's, he sure is one mean sonuvabitch. His finger right now will fetch a healthy price."

"Thank you for being candid," said Bael as he stood up to leave, "someone may be seeing you soon."

"What the hell was this about?" Asked Lawson as he stood up.

Bael just left the office closing the door behind him. Lawson rubbed his beard, smoking his cigar a little faster and harder. He pulled out a crude map of Grayditch and kept his eye on the streets and buildings as he listed more and more details. _May you live in interesting times_, he thought to himself of Sonora Cruz's last words to him face-to-face as he continued to smoke, _and may you receive all that you wish_.

Colin Moriarty Junior, who preferred the name J.R. based on his suffix, opened his eyes. He rubbed the crust from them as his room filled with a florescent light. He turned over to the form laying next to him in the bed, her blonde hair fell in place and was well combed unlike most of the women J.R. had seen in his life. She was different, more-so now than when they first met. Susie Mack had spunk and J.R. found that very attractive. He brushed a strand of hair behind her left ear which caused her to open her blue eyes.

"Have you been staring at me long," she asked with a sleepy smile.

"Would it scare you if I said I had," J.R. asked with a dumb smile on his face.

She pushed him playfully, "nope, I know I'm beautiful. Now I just know you're a big pervert as well."

J.R. smiled as he slid his hand to her hip, "a pervert you let into your bed," he began to tickle her.

She was laughing and fighting him off, the white sheet they both laid under got moved around them to show the white underwear they both wore. J.R. was in clean white boxer-briefs while Susie was wearing tank top and boy shorts. Each grabbed a pillow and were fighting one another off, breathing heavily and getting a little red in the face. After a few more minutes, they both fell back onto the bed. Susie climbed on top J.R. and leaned forward as she straddled him to kiss his lips. Biting his bottom lip and pulling back on it she smiled.

"I win," she said as she kept kissing him.

_I think I win this one, actually_ thought J.R. They wake up delayed for a little while with their bed games and showers, they were finally dressed in their jumpsuits. They walked out of the living quarters together, Susie's arm was playing with J.R.'s. They parted at the end of the tunnel, Susie Mack was helping Edwin Brotch as a teacher's assistant. J.R. was asked to stay behind and talk with the Overseer about the world at large. He made his way to the Overseer's office.

Amata Almodovar was sitting behind the desk looking over the terminal, her advisor was the previous Overseer and her father Alphonse. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail with a loose strand out of the way. Alphonse had his white hair combed back and a stern look etched into his face. It seemed he was lecturing to her about something of maintenance. J.R. knocked on the door and Amata looked up with her slightly tanned skin and smiled.

"Please save me from this lecture on plumbing," she mouthed to him and he nodded.

"I'd really like a tour of reactor if that would be okay," he asked with a smile.

"A great idea!" She exclaimed and sat up from the desk, "save any messages for me, dad."

J.R. and Amata quickly left the office as her dad called out to them, "can't you call me Assistant Overseer?"

They ran down the hallways like they were naughty teen age kids till they came to the reactor system. J.R. held back Amata and both caught their breath. He was bent over, with his hands on his thighs as took in air deeply. Amata was pressing two fingers into her side to help the pain she was feeling.

"Thank you...so much," she said between breathes, "I couldn't listen...to another word."

"Not a fan...of plumbing?" he asked with a smile.

"It's terribly boring," she commented and with a flick of her hair, "so too is the reactor."

"Well, what would be more interesting," he asked, his words coming off more flirtatious than usual.

"You keep that up and I'll have to steal you away from Susan," she walked through a door way and trailed her hand against the door frame, "a lot of the scouting teams have returned."

J.R. just shook his head as he walked after her, "and what have they reported to you?"

"Various things," said Amata vaguely, "seems there is a large need for medical supplies."

"They sure have that right," answered J.R. knowing where this was going, "and Vault 101 can produce stimpacks for next to nothing. Dr. Cushing can see to that."

"Cushing has only just arrived, I'm hesitant to force him into do anything beyond his current duties. I think his imprisonment is still on his mind," she stopped at a terminal and checked it over as some of the other vault dwellers that worked in the reactor busied themselves, "perhaps if you were to talk with him..."

"Cushing and I are not friends by any means," J.R. remember the conversation he had previously with the former Enclave doctor and the hatred that boiled in him, "perhaps one of your own people would be more suited for this adventure."

"Despotism was the failing of my father and led to the fraction, it must be an outsider to push for this," she said with a sad smile as they were in an empty corridor now; seeing the continued hesitation from J.R., "what can we give you...what can I give you?"

J.R. smiled at that, Amata had stopped and turned to him and he walked right into her, she steadied herself by putting her hands on his chest to which he just raised an eyebrow, "tell me about him."

"About who," she asked as she tilted her head to the side.

"He was born here, wasn't he?" J.R. asked again, tilting his head more, his warm breathe tingling her lips.

"Oh, him?" Turned off from the situation now, Amata backed up and rested against the doorway, her hands on her buttocks and against the cold metal, "why do you want to know of him?"

"He's a legend out there," he said with a smile as he leaned against the wall.

"He's infamous down here still," she scrunched up her nose, "if I tell you this will you go to the doctor? And beg for him to assist for all of the people out in the wastes?"

J.R. nodded as he expected a long answer, "he was...cute," to which his smile dropped.

"What do you mean...cute?" He said put off from the answer.

"Well, he was a bit of dork," the word meant nothing to J.R. as the Overseer continued, "though I remember him more for when he returned. He was dirty, clothed in strange items, and more mature. He was like his father in some sense, though not like him in others. But there was one thing that never changed in how I thought about him, despite the dirt, despite the clothes, despite the hard look in his face...he was cute."

"So you and he had a thing," J.R. was a little impressed with the Overseer now.

"No," she said with a sad smile, "though it wasn't for lack of trying. Fate just didn't see fit for us."

"How...hopelessly romantic," stated J.R. as he began to turn away, "guess I'll have to work over the doctor for you."

"A deal is a deal," said Amata as she turned away to brush a small tear away.

J.R. didn't catch the tear as he was already out of corridor and moving to the doctor's office. He wasn't watching where he was going and bumped into someone. J.R. quickly apologized and moved to keep on. Instead there was a striking pain in the back of his leg right at the knee joint. He fell to his knee and stumbled up to meet his assailant.

"I'm watching you," said a man behind a security helmet, his name tag read F. Gomez, before he walked away.

Actaeon blended into the dusky Saloon at Grayditch. His hood made certain to cover his face from all to see, no one suspected him as member of the Brotherhood of Steel. He drank slowly from his water, the alcohol they served he refrained from not because of taste but to avoid his senses being dulled. He needed his keen ear to listen into conversations looking for the key words he needed. But no one seemed to utter them.

He decided upon staying in Grayditch for the past month because there was more movement to the location. Instead of heading to the far corners of settlements to see if John Harkness had touched upon them, he stayed in the one location where wanders, representatives, and traders were gathering. The Saloon was chosen because of the ease to blend in, the loosening of lips with alcohol, and that most people from outside of Grayditch did not avoid it. So Actaeon waited, drank his water, and listened to the boring stories people talked about hoping for some clue onto the location of his prey.

Far north from what counted as civilization in the Capital Wasteland, sat a man at a large wooden table. Around it sat the majority of the people that kept his township, business, and life organized. To his immediate right was a crude if not constant woman with sociopath tendencies named Carolina Red. To his immediate left was the flat top and economic minded weapon trader Pronto. The head of the table was Eulogy Jones, massaging his back in a pink dress was a white woman with her hair combed off to the side. Another woman in a pink dress served drinks to Eulogy, Pronto, and Carolina. The rest of the slavers assembled were served by a male slave in simple clothing. The slaves were named Clover, Crimson, and Frank.

Eulogy Jones lifted his hand up to the assembled, "my compatriots, thank you for assembling on such a short notice. First, I would like to congratulate Ymir and Jotun on their recent success of capturing twenty-three wanderers. To do so without major weapons is an amazing feat, so please a round of applause."

Eulogy paused for everyone to clap, "our stocks are up and now we need to motivate sales. The Brotherhood has seen fit to cut off the Pitt from our goods. We are in a tough spot. Do any of you have suggestions?"

"Sir, if we were to capture some kids from Little Lamplight," began Forty before he was cut off by Jones.

"Forty, there is a reason you do not sit closer to me," his eyes moved from-to-face of the main slavers of Paradise Falls, "your mishap with those kids from Little Lamplight left us with little stock and less caps. Any other half-brained ideas from you lot?"

"Mr. Jones, there is an idea I would like to bring up," said Cutter from the clinic, "there is a ghoul in Seneca station named Murphy, he's some kind of chemist. He has a new drug out and needs test subjects, I'm sure we could sell a few to him."

"I'd like to negotiate rates first," pondered Eulogy, "but that is a good option. I'd prefer to offer the weaker stock there. Perhaps the older ones."

"Sir, what about the Family, they need them for blood bags," offered Grouse as he turned to the people next to him to urge agreements.

"I want nothing to do with those Cannibals, they have hurt the profitability from Arefu and Big Town," Jones was stern and forceful as he clenched his fist, "instead we must make a market. How do we create such a think away from interlopers like the Brotherhood, the Family, and those bounty hunters? The answer my friends faces us to the north east. The Republic is waiting, they need more man power, they need more able bodies, and we all know that the women need more men. This Rosie, this replacement of Dave, has been welcoming to foreigners and allowed them to build up to a larger community."

"What are you suggesting," asked Jotun.

"We begin a campaign against The Republic, hurt them, bleed them," Eulogy Jones felt like he was giving a business proposal, "and then when they feel lost and realize they need more people, we sell them. We sell them at high rates so as to make larger profit due to the demand."

"They wouldn't buy from the people attacking them," stated Grouse.

"That's because it won't be us attacking them," confirmed Eulogy Jones, "we'll employ raiders, mercenaries, and those willing. I will need one to lead them the way I know will get the job complete. Carolina Red will lead them, Pronto will help supply them. Likewise, I expect you all to willing donate or accept a pay cut for this venture."

"This is bullshit!" Shouted out Ymir as he stood up and slammed his armored fist down on the table, "I bring in twenty-three heads of stock and expect that payment!"

Eulogy Jones flicked his ear with two fingers. Clover raised a Chinese sword to the back of Ymir's neck, making sure the blade was above his metal armor. The point of the blade rested at the neck so the cool metal made Ymir grimace. Clover pressed a little too hard and a trickle of blood appeared running down his neck.

"Ymir, you have done well," Jones had a wide smile, "but do not think you will ever get ahead of me. If you understand, please sit down, or not. Either way is fine for me."

Reluctantly, Ymir sat down in his seat grumbling about Eulogy's "trained guard bitch" while he rubbed the back of his neck. Putting Ymir in his place confirmed the deal for the move against the Republic. There would be no declaration of war. No warning; and certainly any captured would be held for sale to another market. _Perhaps the earnest cannibals to the south or Moriarty if he was willing to pay richly_, thought Eulogy Jonesas his campaign to expand enterprise, wealth, and attack the credibility of the Brotherhood of Steel. _The war is on_, he thought happily to himself, _I will not be vanquished. _


	2. Machinations

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 2.) Machinations

John Harkness was held in a room with a light directly on him. He had been conscious as they dragged him into his cell and separated the woman. He held back any direct action because Harkness wanted to play it smart and see what the Outcast situation was currently. The Outcasts were infamous in the wastes, but hardly anyone had seen one if they lived around Rivet City. The Brotherhood of Steel's presence was too strong in those areas and the Outcast's numbers were so low that patrols needed to be supplemented with military bots. The Brotherhood had a consolidated presence while the Outcasts had ventured further on foot throughout the Capital Wasteland.

They had bound his wrists together behind his back with plastic cord along with his ankles to the chair legs. Harkness didn't struggle, he kept his chin to his chest. The Defenders had taken every precaution and removed his satchel, combat armor, and weapons. Bare chested with his hair soaked in sweat, Defender Morgan opened the metal door for two more individuals wearing the same red painted Enclave armor. Harkness raised his head to see them and smiled.

"What is your name, local," asked the armored soldier in the middle.

"My name is reserved for friends and associates," said the android, "I'd like to get down to business, if you don't mind."

"And what business would that be, exactly," the unnamed Outcast said.

"What would you like? Mechanical limb replacements, increased optical weapon sites, better shielding for your mechanical support," rattled off Harkness as he determined the least problematic causing tech that was saved in his central processing memory, "consider me your fount of knowledge."

"Don't believe a word of it, sir," said the other person that wasn't Morgan or present leader, "he's bluffing. The tech is far too advanced for anything pre-War. He isn't Enclave either, so where did he get these schematics? They sure as hell weren't in his satchel."

"They're in my head," snorted Harkness as if the answer was easy.

"Bullshit," said the soldier that doubted him before, "no one can store detailed schematics like that in their head unless they had a picture perfect memory."

"Dumb shit, I have one of those!" Retorted Harkness with a snarl, "look, believe me or don't, I don't care. All I want is medical treatment for my friend and we'll be on our way."

"We're not an emergency room," said Defender Morgan.

The center man put his hand into the air, his arm was behind his back, "let us wait for a second and think about this. You seek medical help and you come here. You offer advanced tech that you memorized as trade. Locals do not tend to like us."

"With good reason," stated Harkness, "whoever does your public relations sucks. I'm giving you such advanced tech, you should be kissing my ass. So please, let's make this deal, I'll write out the first two schematics and then give you the third upon leaving."

There was a minute pause before the leader motioned to cut the cords, and then outstretched his hand, "Protector Casdin."

The android rubs hit wrists feign the pain as he held out his own hand, "John Harkness."

Henry Casdin pulled Harkness close to him, "if you fuck with me, consider it your death certificate."

"The only fucking that'll happen concerns me an Defender Morgan," whispered Harkness.

Casdin barked out a laugh, "you know most can't tell gender when we wear this armor."

"You'll find I'm a lot better than most people," smiled Harkness as he made his grip firmer for Casdin to notice.

Casdin was slightly impressed to feel some pressure against his hand, "get this man to the specialists, Morgan."

"Aye, Protector," answered Defender Morgan as she led the android to the Specialist test center.

As the two of them walked down the hallway Harkness turned to Defender Morgan, "mind if I got a shirt or something? Or do you prefer me topless?"

Harkness couldn't tell if Morgan was smiling or grimacing but the pitch of her voice had been changed, "we'll get you something warm and cozy wasterlander."

"Well, gee, thanks," said Harkness as he continued to walk to the work shop.

"Cush, you got to listen to me," pleaded J.R. as he followed the doctor around his office and into the care ward with the other vault residents looking at them in horror trying to cover their naked bodies with paper gowns, "the wasteland needs these supplies from a regular source! We can't all just scrounge for the last remains out there. We need a steady source for doctors."

"You people need doctors," said Doctor Cushing as he waved his hand dismissively while part of his combed over brown hair flew up into the air in strands, "men of distinction, not...not...not these life forms with a syringe and stethoscope that don't know how to find a vein or a heart beat. Dear god man, in my time out I've seen fools selling mole rat oil and bloat fly venom to cure wounds."

"That proves it even more that we need stimpaks," shouted J.R. with made the doctor red in the face, "Cush, man, you can make a pretty penny selling these things."

The new vault doctor stopped and grabbed J.R. by his shoulders, "stop calling me Cush."

"Peter," said J.R. using his first name, "this needs to be done."

"In my office now," he ordered and they both walked into his office as Cushing flipped a switch closed the doors, "why didn't you come to me about this a month ago, J.R.?"

"I wanted you to get settled first," J.R. shrugged his shoulders, "you know, get healthy and meet the community you'll be coming into."

"Bullshit, J.R.," Cushing realized his hair was messed up and tried to flatten it out, "you needed me for prophylactics rations for nearly twice a week. I hope you and Susie are enjoying those?"

"We're doing fine," said J.R., "but I'm only doing well because of all Vault 101 has to offer. It's time for this Vault to come out into the world."

"These are hardly your words," Cushing squinted, "where are these thoughts coming from?"

"I already told you that one," countered J.R. with a smile, "what more do you want me to say Cush? I mean, if saving lives isn't your thing...you might want to rethink your profession."

"I took an oath," said Doctor Cushing, "I'll think about it."

"That's fair of you," agreed J.R. as he meant to move out of the office, "I'll see you later then, Cush."

"For the last time, J.R." yelled out the doctor from his office as the Operative walked through Cushing's clinic, "don't call me CUSH!"

Operative Daniel Roe was sitting at a table in Mister Crowley's Games and Cards. He was shoulder to shoulder with men of ill repute who wore their history upon them. One was in Talon Company armor, another two were wearing the leather armor of the local mercenaries hired by Ashkelon or Moriarty; it was hard to tell which person they pledged their allegiance. The dealer wore a crimson red jacket with black pants and her hair tied in a pony tail under a cylindrical hat that was equally as red. She dealt the cards for black jack, the men sipped their drinks and those that smoked filled the air with a bluish gray cloud.

There were many lights throughout the mini casino, a security precaution so that nothing could be slipped into dark corners. The ghoul owner was intelligent and ruthless, as he was rumored. It was common to see the heavily armed guards, most of whom had the stench of ghoul flesh under their layers of protective armor and covered faces, throw a distressed patron out to the willing arms of the Ashkelon's prison. Roe's top card was the ten of spades, he turned the corner of his other card to see a four of diamonds.

As the deal passed him he tapped his cards and she tossed down an eight of clubs, "Fuck," he swore out loud as the dealer flipped over his cards to announce the bust.

"Tough luck, meat," growled out the Talon Company mercenary.

Roe couldn't help himself from snarling but was saved a fight with the guards or the merc when Zimm came through the door; he threw a pack to Roe, "we're heading east for a bit."

"What for?" Asked Roe as he he threw the bag on his shoulders and strapped it on tight as he walked to the door and collected his weapons from the guards.

"We have a meeting with Steel Heart," Zimm used the code name the three had developed for Star Paladin Bael to talk openly in public places.

"Do we have news from Grayditch," Roe asked as they were walking through the town and down the road to the east, "where are we going anyway?"

"Super Duper Mart," answered Zimm as the two Operatives made their way to the meeting, "he's going to give an update in person and we're to do the same."

"I guess he's getting concerned with our operation," reasoned Roe as he flicked the button of his holster.

"Listen, Dan, there are a few things that I've reported that you should know about," Zimm said slightly nervous.

"What are you talking about?" Asked Roe as he stopped in the middle of the wastes pulling his face clothe down a little.

"It's about your gambling," Zimms eyes were covered with biker goggles along with the face wrap, his mouth moving under the fabric, "when you're not meeting with Simms or the Stahls, you're gambling. It's a dangerous habit."

"To get the attention of Crowley, we're going to have to spend some caps to get his attention," said Roe, "it's nothing of a habit, just a way to make myself a regular and trusted."

"Well, then you might want to explain that to Bael," said Zimm as he turned to continue walking to the meeting.

"I can't believe you put that in your reports," Roe said as he continued to walk on with his colleague.

"I was just concerned for you, buddy," Zimm was earnest in his sincerity, "you know I always have you back."

"Yea, I got you, there's the meeting place," said Roe as he pointed to the Super Duper Mart.

Star Paladin Bael was with Scribe Mendel, Jameson was too bogged down in the preparations with Notley and the Grayditch council. Mendel was nervous, the only Operatives she had met in her life were currently in jail awaiting what could end up a death sentence. Mendel didn't know it for certain, but she could tell that there were actions occurring in this trial that were motivated by someone in the Brotherhood. Her best guest laid with Head Scribe Rothchild because he did not tell all the details until it became necessary.

Bael tapped her shoulder and pointed in the distance to two greyish dots moving in the distance. The two far off figures waved high in the air. Bael returned the wave and nudged Mendel to do the same. She held her arm high and waved back. The two distant figures became larger as they got closer and their greyish hue took on the red dust and dirt of the wasteland. Soon they stood face to face, the Operatives removed cloth and protective eye wear from around their face.

"Star Paladin Bael," they said in unison and stood at attention.

"At ease, Operatives," allowed Bael as he turned to the guest among them, "this is Scribe Mendel, stationed at Grayditch."

"It's a pleasure, ma'am," said Dan Roe politely as he extended his hand, to which Mendel shook.

Zach did the same adding, "I guess you'll be helping the defense of our friends?"

"I would like too," she stated, "but as one of the few material witnesses, it would not be fair."

Both Operatives nodded, Roe asked plainly, "so what's happening? Any news on Lyons?"

Bael and Mendel shook their heads, with the Scribe giving the update, "Doctor Hopkins is almost certain that Elder Lyons suffered a transient ischemic attack," seeing the dumb looks upon their face she decided to explain better, "sorry, a...TIA is like a small stroke...and shouldn't be more than twenty-four hours. But this coma, we don't know, it's not typical of a TIA which makes us think it could be a regular stroke. But...there are so many...variables..."

"Scribe, we get it," said Zimm in exasperation, "you just don't know."

"The reason I called this meeting was to check in on your operations," said Bael to take the language away from Lyons, "this whole thing to topple Moriarty seems a little too soon to me. However, cautious Yearling rather nip the rise of a dictator in the bud before it becomes an issue. I'm inclined to agree at this point, having seen some of the behavior of Megaton settlers visiting Grayditch."

"Not all of them are bad," corrected Roe with a sideways glance to Zimm, "we've found several willing sources of information."

"They'll be good to use, but never trust them," said Bael in a fair warning, "how is the operation proceeding anyway?"

"So far, so good," said Zimm, "we're still scouting the business, the second we can turn them, it'll happen. Other than that, it's still a waiting game with them. We need to make certain that they view us with trust, if not friendliness."

"Speed would be nice, don't always be like Yearling," Bael preferred results, he leaned forward and held Roe's elbow, "let's take a minute away from these two."

Roe nodded and said, "I already know what you're going to ask me," they were a few feet away, "if this is about the gambling, it's all for the cover."

"Okay, good," said Bael as he bit his bottom lip, "you know we have two of us in jail right now. I don't need any problems from the rest of you. Especially you, Roe. You've been exemplar so far. Please don't fuck it up."

"Aye, sir," said Roe with a nod.

"Dan, there is something else as well," Bael put his arm around the shoulders of Roe, "I'm trying everything possible to get this case on our side. I just don't like things being left to chance though. I know you can understand that."

Roe nodded, "sir, I understand perfectly. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to need you to purchase some mercenaries, a real unsavory bunch, on a contract," answered Bael as he passed some sealed papers to Roe, "but the Brotherhood can not bee seen to fund this in anyway. You'll understand if it were to come to this."

"How do you expect me to get the money then?" Dan was fingering the sealed papers before putting them into his breast pocket.

"Perhaps you should start winning at the tables," suggested Bael with a sarcastic smile as he brushed his long hair back, "one more point, these guys you get. Not Talon Company. They are not to be trusted, ever. The delicate nature of this job, I just can't occur when those gorillas get involved."

"You can count on me, sir," said Roe as he began to return to Zach and the scribe.

Bael returned right behind him, _you better not fuck this up, or they're dead_.

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were sitting at two terminals in the Order of the Quill. They had been reviewing Massachusetts' history for some time. Volumes of history were being scoured from the Governorship of Thomas Dudley up to the New Plague epidemic and Worcester Riots in the spring of 2077. The vast expanse of history, while depressing and humorous at the same time allowed for Newton and Ban to quiz each other and grow closer as mentor and pupil. They began to write down a report on the treatment and character of residents of the Commonwealth for Scribe Yearling.

"You know, this is all pointless," exclaimed Hannah as she pushed away from the desk, "what good is understanding the history of people when we don't have the last two hundred years! It makes no sense."

"Scribe Yearling told us to, so we do it," explained Ban with a shrug.

"Is that how things are run in the Brotherhood?" Questioned the young Operative, "that we're to answer to Scribes before Paladins and Knights?"

"Not usually, but these are different times," said Michael Ban as he kept typed slowly and deliberately, "Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services has an operational lead and logistical lead. Right now we're doing logistical work, so we answer to Yearling."

"It just doesn't feel...right," Newton had a gut feeling, though she didn't know how to describe it.

"You had a large dose of operations, logistics are very important as well," answered Ban, "these guys are on the door steps of entering here and we need to be prepared, for everything."

"What do you think they'll be like?" Asked Hannah as she recalled the one person rumored from the mysterious Institute that visited Rivet City, "there was an old man that people said was from the Commonwealth. All I really remember about him was that he scared me."

"Men, that is all," answered Ban with a benign smile, "they'll bleed, feel pain, and die. They may be more tech advanced than we are, but so was the Enclave."

"But we needed the Lone Wanderer for that," Newton tried to point out the obvious.

"Did we really?" Asked Ban, "we just needed someone, anyone, to do it. The Lone Wanderer is more legend and myth than actual fact. Few people realize that Adams Air Force Base also had an attacked waged by the Brotherhood, or that Project Purity included an attack by the Brotherhood. It took one man behind the scenes, already infiltrated, to complete it. And that is what we do as BIOS."

"So are whole division is based off of the Lone Wanderer?" Newton looked at Ban closely.

He thought for a moment before answering, "no...and yes. These tactics existed before him, he was just driven to do it for other means..."

"Like what?"

"Do I look like his biographer?" Ban was half joking and half sarcastic, "seriously, the man is an enigma, most of the stories about him are overly embellished and Three Dog hasn't been helping out with that either. I'm surprised there hasn't been a cult created for him yet."

"Didn't you hear, some visitors to Grayditch want to develop a Church of the Lone Wanderer," she said half joking and half sarcastic as well.

"Lord help us if that happens," answered Ban with a smile, "cults are a dime-a-dozen out here, we don't need another one."

"What ever happened to him," Hannah was curious as there had been no news on the Lone Wanderer for over a year now, "where did he go?"

"No clue, the only person that might have an answer for us about that is lying on a gurney in Grayditch," answered Ban, "but it doesn't really matter, you know? The Capital Wasteland has you to take care of it, kiddo."

Carolina Red had made her way to, of all places, the settlement of Grayditch. Despite the heightened security, it could not afford to be isolated. The large crowds made it easy to hide in plain sight and work contacts. She was tasked to buying mercenaries, raiders, and other individuals to supply the raid against the Republic. They had already gotten Leroy Walker and his small band of slavers had taken over the old Temple of the Union building and outfitted it as an outpost for Paradise Falls. This is where they would base there attacks from.

Now they needed some real sociopaths to help. Carolina entered the saloon and sat down at the bar. She ordered whiskey and plenty of it. Eulogy had given her a stipend of caps to purchase some people, and she figured she might offer them half the amount while she used the other half. Drinks, whores, and chems were the favorite of this sadistic queen. A mangy man that was thick and beefy and had a large black mane of hair moved up behind her.

He's voice was like growl, "look a' da frewsh meeet, I beat you're still blewdy like furst timmer," if this man honest thought that Carolina was a real virgin he was as dumb as he looked.

"Not for a needle dick fatty," she retorted in a tough tone, "I bet you have issues even finding it. Each morning has a new game for you, which roll of fat will you be peeing off."

"Watsh it missy," said the beefy man his put his hand on her small shoulder, which was a mistake.

Before he could grip down, Carolina bent his thumb back and turned it down and around till the back of his palm laid on the bar as he hunched forward. Carolina took out her knife as she was able to hold him into position. She teased him by running the blade against his palm. He tried hard to look back but the pressure from the position prevented him from doing so. She lifted the knife up just long enough to make him think he was going to be let go. Then she slammed the knife down hard into his palm making sure to go deep into the wood of the bar to pin him there.

The man screamed out obscenities just as a Grayditch guard rushed over, "what's happen' here?"

Actaeon, who had been paying attention to the whole scene like most of the bar jumped up to the right side of the guard. He whisper into his ear that she had been attacked by the man thus defended herself. Not wanting to take the word of one hooded man, the guard asked the others on the woman's side what happened and they all agreed. Actaeon removed the blade from the dumb fools hand with some excessive tugging. The man's friends helped him out of the saloon and to the doctors' office.

Actaeon wiped the blood from the blade on his thigh and handed it back to Carolina, "I suggest you limit your time here, slaver."

"I'm a tough bitch," she said, "take after my daddy. He cut a man's leg off..."

"Just to see him crawl away, I've heard tough talk like that," said Actaeon, then he smiled a little, "you know, I shot a man in New Reno just to see him die..."

"Shooting isn't anything," she said, "but I am looking for some men without an regard for lives..."

"I'm only looking for one person, sorry," Actaeon said as he bit the inside of his cheek, "but you need mercenaries?"

"Yea, someone cheaper than those Talon fucks," Carolina said as she spat phlegm on the floor, "and half as good."

"Well, best of luck to you, but I think this is out of me field," said Actaeon as he walked back to his table and sat down to drink in quiet.

Carolina followed and sat down at Actaeon's table, "I bet you know something, or someone?"

"What makes you say that," asked the scribe as he drank his beer under his hood.

"Your armor, it's too good," she said as she dusted her leather armor, "doesn't seem too used. Some dirt and all, but rather new for the wastes."

"I take good care of my shit," answered Actaeon with a sneer, "and make it a point to not get shot. Can I go back to enjoying my beer."

"I'm guessing you're either new to the wastes," snarled Carolina, "or just a big ol' pussy that runs from a gun fight."

"I have no shots in my back either," Actaeon was getting more and more pissed off by this whelp, "and now I certainly don't want to help you."

"I'll gut you if you don't get me what I need," said the sociopath slaver.

"Motivational speaker of the month from Paradise Falls I take it," quipped the Scribe, "lady, there is nothing you have that I want, nor need."

"You said you were looking for someone," Carolina Red tried her best to look seductive, "perhaps I'm that person?"

"His name is John Harkness, used to work for the Rivet City police," said Actaeon as he sipped his warm beer.

"Oh...that explains it, you're one of those," Carolina was being snide.

The hunter squinted his eyes, "I'm to capture him alive...for questioning."

"What's the bounty on this one," asked Carolina, the only thing to excite her more than blood and gore was caps.

"None," Actaeon leaned back with his hands resting on the chest plate, "it's personal."

"Jilted lover, how sad," teased the sociopath with a sickening smile, "he must have hurt you pretty bad, hun;" Actaeon decided it would be best to ignore her comments and remained silent, "tell you what, I know a man that might be able to help. He's very good at what he does."

"How good," asked Actaeon, feeling that this waiting in Grayditch was finally beginning to pay off.

Carolina teased the lip of her whiskey bottle with her index finger, "good enough that the next round is on you...and any other mercenaries you know that would be hankering for a job."

Actaeon thought about it for a moment, letting his ego get the best of him, "I think I know a few people for the job...but you might have to work on your story to employ them."

Operatives Anna LaCroix and Quin Schieber had challenged Knight Captain Galeas and Knight Bors to a game of pool. Originally meant to be a small part of the Alexandria, it wound up being the main focus of off operation interactions between the Operatives. It became the solution to disagreements. It was also the center of bonding for most who lived in the Alexandra, which was exactly what was occurring between Galeas, and the others.

"So he stole Roe's girl," asked Schieber putting the servant under ownership of Daniel Roe unduly.

"Quit sounding like a slaver," said Bors frustrated, "we don't own people in the Brotherhood."

Schieber rolled his eyes as he passed the que to LaCroix, "so how did it happen?"

"That servant girl, Kim or something got him out," Bors said with a sneer, "good thing we kept one or two of those cage's in the basement."

"That's horrible," LaCroix said shaking her head as she missed sinking the four in the corner pocket, "about my shot I mean, what she did was wrong; but I hope she isn't being treated too poorly."

"She gets three squares and not a hand is laid on her," Galeas said as she began to line her shot, "I'm going to have to wait on words from Yearling or Bael."

"It's been a month," Schieber said as a matter of fact.

"They've been a little busy," said Bors as he sat on the stool with a heavy sigh, "lucky bastards."

One of the servant women walked in with a sealed note, "mail has arrived."

Galeas took the note and thanked the woman, she read it quickly, "seems we have orders."

"About the traitor?" The cue ball hit dead center with enough force to chip it over the lip and on the floor.

Schieber picked it up and threw it to Bors to catch, "they still want Bors and myself to stay here to guard her," said Galeas.

"C'mon," said Bors with a pleading look, "I'm not a house cat, I need to be let out once and a while to bare my fangs."

Galeas rubbed the bridge of her nose, "LaCroix, want to stay back here with me for this one?"

"Is that an order, Knight Captain," she asked with a smile.

"Think of it as one," Galeas replied, "Bors, you and Schieber are to meet up with Sentinel Tristan's Centurions. They are in the far reaches of the north. The jump off point will be Big Town and Arefu, We're going to need some intelligence on them, just basic town make-up and stuff, don't go Roe and J.R. on us."

"That's a bit mean," said LaCroix.

"I'll make sure we won't go over the mission parameters," said Bors with a great big smile under his beard.

"What are these places like," asked Schieber, slightly concerned at being sent out so soon; it had been less than a week.

"Small settlements, they'll be the few safe places," answered Galeas, "then to the north you have super mutants, slavers, raiders, and deathclaws."

"Sounds like a lot of fun," Schieber was being sarcastic.

"I'm in the need of some fun," Bors was smiling ear to ear.

"You'll have a tag along with you," the two men looked to Galeas as she kept on reading the note, "you're to test a robot for the Scribes."

"Aw, c'mon, the first mission I'm on in a few and I have to babysit a junk heap," complained Bors and he threw his hands up to the sky and put his head back.

"It might not be that bad," said Schieber with a shrug, "I love tinkering with those things..."

"You'll love it until it's circuitry gets crossed and decides to kill us in our sleep," complained Bors as he looked in the eyes of the Operative in his mid twenties, "or worst, in the middle of a gun fight we got shot at from the front and the back by that tiny bucket of wires and weapons."

"You're honestly afraid of tech," Schieber always thought the Brotherhood saw technology as gods.

"I'm not afraid of reliable tech!" Corrected the Knight, "this is an untested piece of machinery, it is unreliable."

"I'm sure you'll still protect me," smiled Schieber playfully as he mock teased Bors.

The Bors grumbled as LaCroix leaned over to Galeas to say out loud, "the Knight Captain and I can have some girl bonding time while we stay here."

"Oh joy," said Galeas as she shrugged off Anna's arm and moved out of the rec room.

"I guess meeting adjourned," Schieber said as he laid the pool cue on the table, LaCroix waited a few minutes as Bors finished the table off then she walked to the suite to catch up with Quin.

Eulogy Jones was walking into the repurposed Temple of the Union building as a slaving outpost. Leroy Walker had discovered the location after a tip he received about a new settlement being created at Old Olney. As luck would have, or misfortune in the terms of the slavers, the whole horde of runaways had been traversing the sewers to get to the Lincoln Memorial as Walker and his slaver gang were on their way to Olney. It took less than a week of hard marching when they came across the rubble and half standing structure that was gated. One of Walker's men, Silas, was able to break the lock easily. However, the story this building only came to light when the diary of a slave, Alejandra, was found. Walker was the most educated and able to read her journal on the history of the Temple.

The first act he committed was to burn the journal along with all other traces of the previous inhabitants. Even the carved masonry that read Temple of the Union had a banner hanging over 'the Union' with an orange cloth with white letters sewn in to read Paradise. The Temple of the Union, within a short period of time changed hands from runaway slaves to slavers. The temple of Paradise was born, though without purpose until Eulogy Jones sent word to Walker. Thus, the leader of the slavers graced the so-called hollow halls in the Temple of Paradise.

Eulogy Jones was not alone, with him were his body slaves Crimson and Clover and his pack slave, Frank; he put a handkerchief to his nose as Leroy Walker welcomed him in, "what is that awful stench," he asked with utter loathing.

"Sir, we've been able to clean up some, but the smell of runaways are hard to remove," said Walker as he nodded to Silas to secure the gate firmly behind him.

"So too is the failure to recover my property," said Jones as wiped his slightly sweaty forehead and unseen dust from his suit, "though I expect better from you this time, Leroy. Do you understand?"

"We can still capture them," commented Walker as one of the recently captured wastelanders was forced onto a bicycle to produce electricity, "we know exactly where they are."

Eulogy smiled wide as he surveyed the outpost as the strung lights came up as the slave biked harder, "your loyalty more than makes up for you poor understanding of tactics. Every now and then you have a gem, but Walker, leave these plans to better suited people."

"I've made this my office," said Leroy as he opened a door to what used to be the classroom, "it's big and on the ground floor. It'll allow me a quick response."

"Or an outside wall to collapse on you," said Eulogy as he sat behind Walker's desk.

Walker gingerly sat down on a metal chair, his heavy spiked metal armor making the ancient chair creak and groan, "it's a pleasure to have you here at your new outpost, Mr. Jones."

"I don't enjoy leaving the comfort of Paradise," said Eulogy as he reached into his jacket for a flask, "recent events have required me to pay more attention to my backyard than sitting in my lofty tower. I refuse to become a figurehead like Tenpenny. That is why I had you first convert this place after the discovery. Action from this post will be stepped up."

"My boys are always good for some action," confirmed Walker with a nod.

"That is what I'm here to talk with you about," said Eulogy with a smile, "you're boys will be second to another group that will be coming on board. We're to higher mercenaries to help distance attacks from Paradise Falls. Likewise, _you_ will be second in command to another."

"Mr. Jones, I and my men will be more than adequate for any attacks," stressed Walker as he eyed Crimson and Clover, "let me make up my mistake."

"This is what you will do, Leroy," stated Eulogy firmly, "you will support the person I send here, and help the selling, transportation, and care of all captured stock. On top of this, Temple of Paradise, as it is mine, will be freely available to these hired guns and I expect you to be accommodating."

"Eulogy, you're just asking way too much from my men," said Walker, a hint of his ego coming out to his boss and employer.

Eulogy put his feet up onto Leroy's desk, the dirt and radioactive mud dirtying the flat counter, "Leroy, you don't have an option," Jones smiled and said calmly, "well, I guess you do. You can defy these orders and get a nice collar put on your neck as an example, or you could do them and be able to breathe easy knowing you'll still have a head connected to your shoulders. As for your men, do not forget whose men they are. Who is the one that pays your fees? The one that pays for your stock outright? I do all of that, the caps rest with me. And he that has control of the purse has control over all. Do you understand me, Walker?"

Leroy grumbled, "who will I be working under?"

"I've put Carolina Red in control of the raids," answered Eulogy, smiling because he knew how to win battles before they were even fought, "Pronto will be supplying the weaponry and ammo at my expense."

"She's a fucking psycho!" Leroy was not happy to have to accommodate an individual that damaged the products before sails, "her dad was good people. Don't get me wrong, he'd make a handsome profit. But that girl, Carolina, she's got more than a screw loose. Her idea of planning is to go guns blazing!"

_That's exactly what I'm looking for_, thought the head slaver, "perhaps you'll be able to temper her. Though I doubt it."

"Damn straight you doubt it," Leroy was clenching his fist tight, "that skinny bitch has led to more amputees on the market than bear traps. She's not up to this mission, hired guns or not. They'll be crazier than she is!"

"We'll see when she delivers them," Eulogy closed off his flask and tucked it away, "but I have complete faith in her completing the assignment, my faith in you still needs to be affirmed, Walker. I tire of all this talk; I'd like to get some rest before I leave in the morning."

"Sir, may I suggest you take one of my slaves to bed with you," offered Walker in a gesture of welcome to the new Temple of Paradise.

"It would be a wonderful addition," answered Jones as he undid the top button of his dress shirt.

"I will make sure her beauty and skill equal that of your fairness," said Leroy making Eulogy hesitate for a second before his subordinate continued, "only the best will be gifted to Eulogy Jones."


	3. Dreams of the Chosen

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 3.) Dreams of the Chosen

In the laboratory of the Citadel, under the main courtyard, Knight Bors and Operative Quin Schieber were getting briefed by Scribe Vallincourt on her new pet project. The Mister Gusty robotic support unit had been remodeled. This unit had four arms that included a precision cutting laser, three pronged hand, and standard flamethrower and plasma capacitor. The largest innovation, besides the application of a miniaturized power module created by Doctor Madison Li for Liberty Prime, was the inclusion of an on-board stealth system that was reversed engineered from Robert Mayflower's wrist unit. The platform, in Vallincourt's perspective, had the potential to assist all field teams in the future. The testing of the prototype would prove whether it was a helpful tool.

Knight Bors and Operative Schieber circled around the dull metallic gray machine once as the scribe listed all of the programs and applications, "it'll have everything you need when the situation calls for it, men. I've even installed a communication system that can broadcast back to Citadel Control."

"What do you mean _can_ _broadcast_?" Schieber was looking for a specific answer before going out into the field with the hovering robot in front of him.

"Well, there are several radio towers in the northern region that we know of," said the scribe with messy short red hair, "and you can essentially boost one of the towers with TRIP to reach Citadel Control…"

"This thing has a name," Bors' disdain was not disguised well.

"A name? No, not at all," Scribe Vallincourt apologized, "Trip is short for Tactical Reconnaissance Immersion Platform. It has no name, no personality, nothing even remotely human. You will have to address orders to it directly by saying Trip. But other than that, it'll remain out of the way and invisible to prevent any damage to itself."

"I like the sound of that: silent, unseen, and not intrusive," said Bors as he smiled, "so all I have to do is say and order after I say Trip?"

"Correct," said Vallincourt as she put down her coffee mug on the terminal, "give it a try, and tell it to take the coffee mug from the computer."

Bors brushed his beard and said, "Trip, remove the coffee mug from the terminal."

The robot, Trip, quickly turned and shot a plasma pinch at the coffee mug disintegrating it into dust, several scribes threw themselves onto the floor as the robot turned to Knight Bors and said in a metallic voice, "objective complete."

"Perhaps 'remove' was not the most appropriate word," said Vallincourt out loud she approached the back panel of the machine and popped it open.

"You don't say," Bors was sarcastic and even more on edge with the machine now.

Schieber was beginning to feel a little uneasy as well, "we might have some issues with that," chewing his cheek.

"Okay, I think I've fixed the sensitivity," answered Vallincourt with a perky smile, "I've…um…removed some of the interpretive language from its database. Trip shouldn't misfire like that again."

"Let's hope so," said Bors as he checked his laser rifle, just encase he needed to put the machine down.

"So what will this thing do in a fire fight," asked Schieber as he moved closer to it and motioned with his hand to see the back panel.

Vallincourt nodded and moved away to let the Operative check the on board access, "well, it won't get you into any scraps, that's for sure. It is built for stealth, recon, and tactical assistance. But the optics have been upgraded as well, instead of one lens in each, all four have three different filters at the same time. One infrared, one thermal, and one real time visual color spectrum; the purpose for this will allow the ability to report any incoming threats, day or night, even behind objects."

"Can it differentiate between targets," asked Bors as Schieber began to tinker a little which caused Vallincourt to become nervous.

"Uh…please don't mess with the circuitry, it's operating properly I assure you," Schieber turned to her and smiled.

"I'm just adding some personal touches," he said before going back to the robot.

Vallincourt was not at ease, "uhm…yes…back to your question…what was it again?"

"Targets, can this machine differentiate targets," asked Bors, his eyes squinting in amusement at Schieber's tampering and Vallincourt's wounded posture.

"Well, we've been able to teach it the difference between what a person with and without power armor is like," said the scribe as she held her fingers together to prevent herself from throttling Quin, "we also taught it the different between individuals carrying firearms in their hands and those with their weapons holstered. Oh, yes, and dogs. It can tell the difference between a man and a dog."

"Most women can't," said Quin as he threw his corny one liner out into the conversation.

"What do you mean taught?" Bors was slightly more interested at this aspect of the robot.

"That is basically why we need to test in the field," acknowledged Vallincourt, "we need Trip to learn the difference between a Super Mutant and a radroach, and all creatures in between. I don't expect Trip's database to be completely inundated with information, but there will be differences the machine recognizes like radiation exposure, shape, and size."

"How exactly will it learn," Bors pushed, as Vallincourt didn't really answer.

"Well, after an engagement with one of those creatures, all you have to do is inform Trip of what you just fought," Vallincourt made it sound easy, "and if you fight similar creatures later on, Trip is programmed to ask if those creatures were the ones you informed it of before. You're answer will make Trip imprint an identification for the target to help with the future activity int he field and possibly multiple models."

"This seems like a long and arduous educational safari to me," said Bors with contempt.

"I promise you, Knight Bors, Trip will only assist your operation." Confirmed Vallincourt, "it will be hard to even tell when it is there unless you call for it directly."

"There," said Schieber as he closed the panel and wiped some grease off his gloves onto his power armor suit, "operating at a hundred and ten percent now."

"A hundred and ten percent is not possible, Operative," retorted the scribe.

"Trip, give a diagnostic of your operating system," asked Quin with a devilish smile.

"This platform is performing at optimum capacity, Operative Quintus Schieber," replied Trip in a light and lyrical female voice that brought a smile to Knight Bors and scowl to Scribe Vallincourt.

Jameson was sitting at long conference table with several of the Grayditch council. The council did not represent an elected leadership; it was more of a select few chosen by the Mayor and his assistant to garner support and present legitimacy. Henry Fleet, as active as he appeared, was not hands on when it came to the trial. The duty was left to his assistant, the council, and for the most part Jameson. She was attempting to corral the circus together as best she could and was now pushing for who would be representing council.

"It should be a resident of Grayditch, pure and simple," stated Notley with the rest of the council gving some sort of agreement with him.

"I would like to agree with you, Assistant Mayor," Jameson found it best to use the man's formal title to get what she wished, "but this case is extraordinary to begin with. Let's forget the lack of law for the past two hundred years, and even the concept of founding principles that used to belong to what was the previous empire that came before the current situation in which we find ourselves and this lovely town of Grayditch. In this moment, what is clear to everyone is that fair representation from any citizen of Grayditch will not be forthcoming. Fair judgment can be provided, yes. But fair representation to the best of their ability will not be found here when it comes to the defense of these individuals."

"I think you judge our town poorly," said one of the council members.

"It is a good thing that I could not be a justice," said Jameson, "I am now afforded the right to defend all three of these men."

"Even the one that killed your own Knight," asked a red headed councilwoman.

"Allegedly murdered a Knight stationed for the protection of Grayditch," corrected the Scribe showing her silver tongue, "and to answer your question Councilwoman Eves, yes. I will defend that nameless man to the best of my ability just as I will defend the members of the Brotherhood of Steel in this trial.'

Notley shuffled his papers and added, "I would move to have the charge increased on this nameless prisoner to include the attempted murder of one of the Graydtich guards."

"You mean the alleged accidental shooting of one of your guards," said Scribe Jameson, given a little over a month to get to know the individual council members and the assistant, he speaking came more at ease now because of familiarity.

"Accidental my ass," said Notley, "how could you even suggest his action as accidental. He attempted to murder a guard with full premeditated intent."

"The gun only went off when a struggle ensued;" said Jameson with a smile, "had there been no struggle, then that gun may not have gone off and wounded your guard."

"Complete, and utter, bullshit," exclaimed the assistant mayor.

"The Brotherhood representative does have a point," said Councilwoman Eves, "and I do appreciate the show that has just taken place. I would look forward to seeing it even more in a court room."

"Are you seriously seconding her idea to be lead counsel for the defense?" Thomas Notley questioned the councilwoman in a tone of accusing her of collaboration with the Brotherhood, who returned a small smile to him.

Councilwoman Eves continued, "I'd also like to nominate you, Assistant Mayor, as the lead prosecuting counsel."

"Oh, well, uhmm…" Notley seemed to have had the hot air removed from his sails.

"Seconded," more than one of the council members stated.

Notley looked up and down the conference table, "uhmm…are there any other points or motions?" Seeing none, Notley nodded to the Grayditch guard that was present for security reason, to lock the door, "we are now going to move into voting procedure. Uhmm…let's see, yes. Scribe Jameson and I will now remove ourselves from the voting procedure. That leaves only eleven individuals to vote, thus a simple majority will be six votes. This will be conducted in a roll call vote with two separate questions.

"Question A, will be the appointment of Scribe Jameson of the Brotherhood of Steel as defense counsel," stated Notley of the proceedings, the rules and procedures of the council having been cannibalized from several parliamentary texts, "Question B, will be the appoint of me, Assistant Mayor, Thomas Notley, as the counsel for the township of Grayditch. Each member can vote with a yes or no, each member of the council present is required to vote..."

"Lone Wanderer's balls, Notley," exclaimed an elderly man on the far side of the conference table, "we all know the rules we've created…can we get on with the vote."

"Yes, Councilman Solomon," said the Assistant Mayor, "we will proceed alphabetically, Councilwoman Anders, how do you vote on question A?"

"No," said a middle aged woman with salt and pepper hair.

"And on question B?"

"Yes," she said with a firmly, Notley smiled to himself.

"Councilman Balfour, how do you vote on question A?"

The man with a ruddy complexion and light blond hair that sat next to Councilwoman Eves straitened up and coughed to clear his throat, "yes," he said in a squeak.

Notley gave him a steely look before asking, "Question B?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Balfour squeaked, "yes, fully and imperatively."

"Thank you, Councilman Balfour," stated Notley as he turned to the red headed Eves, "Councilwoman Eves…"

"I'll save you some time, Notley," she said with a sweet smile, "yes to both."

"Noted," he said, "Councilman Haun, how do you vote on question A?"

"No," said a wizened Asian man with a full head of black hair.

"And on Question B, how do you vote?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"Councilman Kingo," a former raider from the Alexandria Arms forced into pre-War clothes looked up to the Assistant, "how do you vote on Question A?"

"No," he said forcefully, a whistle coming from a hole of a former piercing in his nose, "and yes on Question B."

"Thank you, Kingo," said Notley with a sickening smile to Jameson, the next three councilmen all voted yes for both Jameson and Notley, giving the Assistant Mayor his majority.

"Councilman Reeves," asked Notley, not caring too much for procedure anymore now that he secured his position, "how do you vote."

"No on Jameson," said man wearing what seemed like a moldy turtleneck, "yes on Notley."

"Thank you kindly," said Notley as he turned to the penultimate councilman, "Solomon?"

"No to the Scribe," he said licking his cracked aged lips, "yes to you, my supreme Assistant Mayor."

"Your praise is duly noted," commented Notley as Solomon mumbled 'Jackass' under his breath, "and finally, Councilwoman Torres-Brandice."

"Yes to both questions," she said with a sad smile to Scribe Jameson.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly," stated Notley as he broke the tip of his pencil.

"I said yes to both Question A and Question B," said Councilwoman Torres-Brandice slowly.

"I am making a note of this, Sheila," said Notley as he sharpened his pencil with a knife.

"I would also like to add that my late husband, William, one of the original founders of this lovely township of Grayditch would stand for fairness and equality in the face of persecution," she said firmly as she clenched her fist firmly.

"Shall I have to mention to Fredrick that you've referenced your late husband again," asked Notley peevishly.

"Tell Fred all you wish, Tom," Sheila was agitated but continued, "but this is my opinion and my vote. As Mayor Fleet wanted one of the original families on the council, I believe I am due some respect from you."

Notley stared down Torres-Brandice longer before he turned back to his paper, "the final count is six for Question A, five against; eleven for Question B, none against. The counsel for the defense will be Scribe Jameson, and the counsel for the township of Grayditch will be me."

The council stood up in a round of applause, Jameson taking stock of who had voted for and against her when it came to future decisions. As the applause died down, Notley turned to the Scribe and calmly stated that a break should be in order. Jameson reminded the Assistant that was up for the council to propose and vote on. The council did so in less than ten seconds, making sure to return to their seats in three hours. Long lunches were becoming common for Jameson as she worked the politics of Graydtich and birth of the judicial system.

Star Paladin Bael was waiting outside of what had become the Town Hall, and was originally the apartment of Mayor Fleet. As Scribe Jameson walked outside into the bright day light, he walked in line with her. They stopped briefly at the prison cells to have words with the Operatives and the unnamed prisoner. This was when Jameson let it out that she was appointed counsel of them and would need to see them one-on-one soon to take statements. The Prisoner should skepticism and disbelief that a Brotherhood Scribe fought to represent him as n alleged murderer of a Brotherhood Knight.

Bael and Jameson decided to head out of Grayditch for the lunch break, and ordered food at Captain Paglia Dockside Bar & Grill. The little shack bar and grill ran by Grandma Sparkle and her boys became a big attraction. The increased commerce also brought and increase of crime, apparently Sparkle had been a victim of such a crime. She limped to Bael and Jameson as she leaned heavily on a home made cane carved from a baseball bat.

"How y'all doing?" She asked cheerfully as she took the pressure off her foot by leaning on the cane and her good right foot, "what can I do ya' for?"

"Grandma Sparkle, what happened to you," asked Scribe Jameson in concern.

"What, this? Ain't nothing, m'dear," she said with a smile that spoke of deceit, "had an 'orney fellow come by late 'ne night. Stole my shotgun and m'foot. But no worries, m'boys showed what happens when you mess wit' family here."

"Well, it's good to see you're boys have come back to help out more," said Jameson with a smile, ever since Elder Lyons' ailment and her overt presence on the trial, she started to become more well known in the area; to the chagrin of Head Scribe Rothchild.

"It's good to have'm back," agreed the old cook and merchant, "we're still knee deep in 'lurk stock too, trade secret though. I do recommend our 'lurk stew and 'lurk cakes, best you'll get in the whole area."

"We both know that," agreed Jameson, "we'll have two large orders of each, Grandma."

"You got it, honey," said Sparkle as she limped away to put the order in with her sons.

"Why do you have to be so nice to a woman like that," said Bael with stern face, "you know she makes a fortune trading what she overhears from us."

"From what I heard, that's how she lost the foot," said Jameson as she brushed her hair, "I doubt she'll be saying anything to anyone soon."

"So you were elected defense counselor," confirmed Bael as Jameson nodded, "well at least some of our plans are going the way we want."

"Was there a problem with Roe?" The Head of the Order of the Quills looked concerned.

"I don't know yet," answered the Star Paladin, "the gambling may become an issue. I gave him the note on what needs to be done."

"If I fail in the court room," stipulated Jameson.

"Please don't," cautioned Bael.

"I will try my best, Star Paladin," said Jameson, warning Bael that professionalism was still required between them.

"I believe the next step will be that short list," said Bael as he pushed forward on the operation.

"Pushing the vote forward today allowed me to see who the council can be swayed, there seem to be five or six that can," she said with a smile, "Councilwoman Eves has a crush on me, I believe."

"From what I hear she's trying to take Notley's position," Bael pushed one of the beers to Jameson as one of Sparkle's sons served them, "from under the desk of Henry Fleet."

"Cristano, I did not think you were one for gossip," Jameson smirked.

"Cathy may be the town gossip but every once and a while she drops a gold nugget," Bael said kindly, "it was good that Juan and Lolli pointed me in her direction."

"How are they holding up really," Jameson was concerned for them because they had spent a lot of time behind bars.

"They won't admit it, but they're bored out of their minds and that is making the experience worse," Bael sipped his warm beer, "Alvarado still doesn't have feeling in arm, which has me worried."

"Hopkins said anything yet?" Jameson sipped her beer as the food was served.

Bael moved the mirelurk cakes in front of him with the soup to his right hand side as he took a bite of the sweet crustacean, _Grandma Sparkle sure knows how to cook some mirelurk_, he though while chewing "Hopkins said it might be completely paralyzed from nerve damage. There are two options with that situation."

Jameson was eating as well, "replacement of the limb, or restriction."

"We haven't had the talk with Alvarado yet," said Bael he took a spoonful of soup, "it'll be tough choice, specially with the kid's religion," Jameson cocked her head to the side asking Bael to explain without saying a word, "he grew up in Rivet City, Father Clifford and Saint Monica's Church have a lot of Judeo-Christian values."

"Ah, the whole body is a temple issue," said Jameson with a knowing look from being well educated.

"That and the needless pursuit of amputation, apart from saving your life, could be considered vanity," Bael chewed his mirelurk cake, "Alvarado can live with a paralyzed arm, but wanting a working arm similar to the mechanical prosthesis on Sentinel Cross might be seen as going against the will of God."

"God's will," snorted Jameson as she shook her head, "the worst possessive statement in the history of man."

"Alvarado will need to make the choice for himself," said Bael, "but I don't think he's in the right place to make that decision."

"Agreed, let's wait till after the trial," said Jameson with a sad yet hopeful smile, "when they are free."

"One way or another," said Bael as they clink the stems of their beers together in a toast.

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were sitting in the communication center of Citadel Control. They both knew that Bors and Schieber were at the Citadel too, but they were still on an operation heading into the next phase. Newton and Ban were being briefed by both Yearling and Rothchild. The brief included all notes from the conversations between Communications Officer Bell of the _Justice_ and that of acting Elder Rothchild. The conversations dealt mainly with setting up timetables of arrival for an unspecified date and the wishes of the dignitaries being sent. The main focus was on a pilgrimage to the Mall, and a lot of the unsecured areas of the D.C. Ruins.

Ban and Newton familiarized themselves with the conversation and the personal opinions of Rothchild and Yearling because they were going to make contact with the _Justice _as well. They were also told that they were to be the official liaisons with those represented nations visiting. Spooks given ambassadorial status and position were well established throughout many of the Westernized and Soviet blocs. Ban and Newton were to relive this role first hand. Instead of wheeling and dealing for the United States of America, the Operative and Knight would be fulfilling the roll for the Brotherhood of Steel and what Rothchild referred to as "Lyons' Columbia Commonwealth."

Ban and Newton sat side-by-side, the Knight still in his wheel chair, as they nodded to the scribes and Yearling turned to Rothchild, "I think they're ready."

Reginald Rothchild eyed them over before turning back to Yearling, "you think so?"

Yearling nodded and helped Ban over the communications system that was set up on a direct channel with the _Justice_, "you just depress this button to talk, don't forget to end your conversation with 'Over'"

Ban nodded as he pushed the button, "_BCSS Justice_, _BCSS Justice_, this is Citadel Control, come in, over."

They waited a few minutes before there was a reply back, "Acknowledged Citadel Control, this is Comm Officer Bell of the _BCSS Justice_, what is there to report?"

"Comm Officer Bell, My name is Knight Ban with me is Knight Newton, it is a pleasure to meet you, over," said Ban as he stressed his neck a little, not too comfortable with making diplomatic introductions.

"It's an equal pleasure to hear from you Sir Ban and Sir Newton," said Comm Officer Bell through the radio, "we're getting anxious to meet in person, and we've been treading circles for some time now, over."

"Understood, Comm Officer Bell, we're hoping to have everything finished with the next month," answered Ban into the radio, "I should have been more specific when inducing myself and my colleague. Knight Newton and I have been designated the official liaisons to the Commonwealth. Her and I are looking to make your visit as comfortable as possible, over?"

"My apologizes, Lady Newton, I should not have assumed only men were knights," replied Bell over the line, "it's good to know that there is a larger structure of order in the Capitol. The chief concern currently is getting on dry land, over."

"How many people are to arrive," asked Ban thinking of logistics, "the Brotherhood would like to make appropriate housing, over."

"Two hundred and fifty, over." Bell's voice said over the radio.

Ban and Newton were a bit shocked as Yearling just mumbled, "about what we expected."

"We can try and see about accommodations," said Ban into the radio over, "though we can't promise anything for certain just yet, over."

"Sir Ban, that would be two hundred and fifty on the first ship, the carrier it self approaches a population of a thousand," Bell went on to say through the radio, "The representatives from the Kingdom of Brandia, along with other representatives of the Commonwealth, are on board with support staff, over."

"We will not be able to accommodate all those people at once," said Ban as a matter of fact, Yearling was now hunched over a map as she called Rothchild to her side, "we'd be too strapped on resources and security, over."

"Do not worry, Sir Ban," Bell was using a calming town, "the Rear Admiral only feels that two hundred and fifty can be on land at a given time, to ensure safety as well; over."

"Would it be possible to speak with the Rear Admiral," asked Ban, wondering why they hadn't already, "over."

"I apologize, Sir Ban, but Rear Admiral Nelson is occupied with running the fleet," confirmed Bell, "rest assured he is well informed about what is discussed between the _Justice_ and Citadel Control, over."

"Got it, it'll be a good location," said Yearling as she pointed to the map Rothchild nodded as well, "it'll take some time to secure the ground, but would be fine for an encampment."

"Officer Bell, we're going to need a few to secure an area for you, but it seems reasonable," said Newton for the time into the radio, "do your people have any housing supplies with them, over?"

"It's good to hear your voice, Lady Newton, I feared you were a mute," said Bell pleasantly, "we've been nomadic for awhile, four sturdy walls would be a luxury for us, but a clear field will do as well, over."

"We can work on it and then apprise you of the situation," said Newton, "we'd also like a tentative list of those that will be arriving, along with their status or rank so that we do not make too many cultural blunders, over."

As Bell and Newton talked, Yearling leaned over the shoulder of Ban and whispered, "you and the Operative may need to pull a mission similar to the Alexandria."

"What do you have in mind," Ban wasn't didn't feel too up to walking, let alone clearing a nest of Raiders but he listened as Scribe Yearling detailed her plan to him.

Daniel Roe was sitting in Mister Crowely's Games and Cards, again. What he had told his colleague and boss was not entirely true. Tension built in the pit of his stomach, he had read the sealed not passed to him by Star Paladin Bael and kept it in his right breast pocket. The knot grew in his stomach; the tension was welcomed because it would be released either way when he flipped the card to see what his plan would be. A ten and nine of hearts meant he would stay in hope of the dealer busting or a push. He was at the black jack table, sitting in a chair that was becoming his regular position.

Roe was currently a little over a thousand caps up, but he did not play for the money. He chased the thrill of the risk that made the knot in his stomach tighten with anticipation and then become released as he either won or loss. Dan would then push, if he either won or lost, trying to follow each win or loss with yet another until there was a change. Win after win he would push until he lost, and then he would push each lost until he won, unable to give up his seat, his cards, nor the feeling of adrenaline in his veins. Roe didn't lack excitement in his life, far from it as an Operative for the Brotherhood of Steel, but gambling with money and cards was a lot better than with his or other peoples' lives.

Finding himself on a hot winning streak, Roe kept on pushing his luck at the table. The mercenaries, guards, and rogues around him kept to their own conversations. At his table sat a couple of Talon mercs and local wastelands with a few caps. They were eying the Operative with hatred as he won yet again when the dealer stopped on nineteen, beating everyone besides Roe who just won his original bet back. One of the fowl looking Talon mercs leaned over to his fellow sadist in black combat armor.

"Motherfukah thinks he's on top of the world," said the Talon murderer for higher.

The other Talon mercenary was a regular and stated, "he'll lose it, he always plays to lose."

But Roe kept winning and that was one of the ways to gain attention. This was the attention he looking for if he wanted to meet Mister Crowley. The ghoul guards began to shift their positions so that three were standing behind Roe. Before the cards could be dealt again, one of them tapped him on the shoulder with their gloved hand.

"The owner would like to see you," the guard's voice came behind the clothe mask covering his whole head like gravel.

Roe reached forward and began to gather his caps, the guard squeezed his shoulder and helped him from his chair, the guard said "we'll take care of it, and do not worry."

_Well that just makes me worry less_, thought Roe sarcastically as he was led downstairs to the basement where Crowley's office, vault, and guard station were all located. The ghouls took of their masks when they were down in the security office, and the vault was locked with armed guards outside. There was a large wooden door that the guard with Roe approached that was opened by a guard standing outside of Crowley's office. The room had dim lighting with a lot of warm woods that seemed to have been salvaged from ancient office buildings in the D.C. Ruins.

Crowley, at large personal expense, had remodeled the cellar office with furniture, lights, and to extend the fireplace down to his level. He was standing in front of it drinking from a tumbler wearing a dirty white suit with navy blue pin strips. The desk was littered with papers and in the corner was hat rack and umbrella stand. Mounted on the wall that was behind the large desk that belonged to Crowley was deathclaw hand nailed to a plank of wood.

The guards forced Roe to sit down in a padded chair that was from the pre-War era, "you know who I am," growled Mister Crowley as he fanned the flames of his fire with an iron poker.

"Yes," said Operative Roe firmly as he fought from the grip of the guard.

"Leave us," said Crowley to his guards as h put the poker down and sat on the top of his desk, the ghoul's face was marred with rotten green flesh on his chin and cheeks, an empty socket where his nose once belonged, along with sparse and lanky green hair, "I've been told you've spent a fair amount of caps here, smoothskin."

"I haven't kept count," admitted Roe as he tried to smile coyly.

"My book keeper's say that for the past month, you have lost seven hundred and forty-two caps to my casino," said Crowley, a slight whistle coming from the hole in his face, "today, you have made one thousand three hundred and seventy-eight caps."

"I've had a lucky day," said Roe with a smile.

"There's no luck, kid," said Mister Crowley in a deep growl, "I make you think there is luck. But ultimately, Crowley always wins."

"I'd like to see that," said Dan as he cracked his knuckles.

"Don't you dare mock me, smoothskin," snapped the ghoul as he pushed his suit coat to the side to show his scoped forty-four magnum.

"I dare not do that, I'm only a man," the Operative was slightly put off from Crowley.

"A weak bag of smoothskin," said the ghoul derogatorily to Dan.

"Listen, Mister Crowley, I've come here with an offer," Roe was putting his cards on the table face up, "I'm in the employ of Ashkelon. He would like for you to declare your economic independence from Moriarty. Not necessarily join him, but he is offering to cover outside security fees for thirty percent of the house take."

Crowley thought about it for a second and shook his head, "I'd rather not any smoothskin hold over my business."

"Nor do I, Mister Crowley," Roe held his hands to his chest where his heart would be, "and paying Moriarty fifty percent of house earnings. That's criminal."

"I don't trust his smoothskin flesh, why should I trust yours," commented the casino owner.

"Same basic deal, but you pocket more money," said Roe with a shrug, "seventy percent is better than fifty percent. And we won't ask what you do with your money at all. Buy more guards and cut Ashkelon out of the business for all I care. Hell you can even start a opulent city for ghouls that will make a ton of caps and elevate your people from poverty."

"Fuck those near feral slaves," Crowley cussed out his own as he folded his arms, "they never did anything for me, why should I help them out. Everything I am, I've made on my own. There is only one thing worse than the ignorant smoothskins that whip us are the spineless shufflers that accept the whipping."

"All I'm saying is that this money is yours," Roe pushed.

"What if I give Ashkelon nothing," Crowley mused.

"That would be a bad decision for you," Roe was being earnest, "because Moriarty would be up in arms, and then sends Jericho and his goons after you. Ashkelon is promising assistance."

"He doesn't have enough man power," Crowley had good information.

"But the two of you together fair a better chance of success than on your own," the Operative rested his case.

"Thirty percent is too high, ask your employer if he'll do ten," said Crowley.

"You honestly want me to go back there with ten, TEN percent?" Dan feigned being indignant, "he offers twenty percent less than that criminal in Megaton, and you say it's too high than what you already are paying?"

"Fine, fine," grumbled the ghoul, "fifteen percent, half of his original offer. I want to hear what the Warden has to say about that as terms."

"I'm sure he won't kill me if I returned with that," said Roe as he stood up.

"Was that all you wanted to discuss," said Crowley as he snatched his tumbler in his boney hands and filled it with liquor again sitting behind his desk.

"Well, I did have a question on your men," Roe seemed a little more nervous, Crowley raised the muscle on his face where his eyebrow would have been in years past, "are any of them for sale?"

"Fucking zombie trader," snarled Crowley as he slammed his glass down on the table after downing it in one gulp, "get the fuck out of my office."

Dan held his hands up into the air, "no, no, you miss understand, Mister Crowley."

Two guards that had been standing outside of the door burst into the room, Crowley held his hand up as the guards drew their Chinese assault rifles and aimed that at Roe, "speak quickly."

There was only one word in Dan's mind, _shit_, but what came from his mouth was "I'm going to need six men soon and your guards have good training and equipment."

"So you need some mercenaries," nodded Crowley, "then go to the Talon Company, they'll take anything."

"I need professionals not thugs," Roe had a fire in his eyes.

"I'll tell you what smoothskin, I'll keep the winnings from today as deposit," said Crowley, "and if this deal with Ashkelon goes through, I'm sure we can find an agreeable rental fee."

The metal hallways of Vault 101 were lit as J.R. and Susie walked down a descending corridor. As they leveled off there was a larger platform with two closed doors. Susie, holding J.R.'s hand with hers swung it a little. The Operative leaned into her, letting his weight push her to the side playfully. She slapped his shoulder playfully making him smile with a brightness to his eyes.

"I have a surprise for you," said the blond girl as she bit her upper lip in a smile.

"What kind of surprise is this," he asked as pulled her closer to him, "like those holotapes you discovered before meeting me?"

Susie smacked his chest, "you seemed to enjoy reenacting some of those scenes with me, mister."

J.R. put his mouth right against her ear and whispered slowly, "I especially loved pretending to be your repair man."

"Put your tool away," she whispered and led him through the door, "this is more of a public event."

"You are kinky," J.R.'s grin disappeared as the door to the left opened to reveal a large underground chamber that was circled with white florescent lights pointing inward to illuminate green field, "what…the…hell?"

Susie held his hand led him up some stairs to benches that were stacked higher in the back than the front, "I thought you'd be amazed."

J.R. was staring out into the cavernous room that went on for over a hundred yards, there was a white diamond painted into the green field, "what…what is this?"

"It's our baseball field," she answered as a matter of fact, "the little league and vault teams play down here."

"Play what," asked J.R. felt dumb for not knowing what baseball was, the realization flashed across Susie's face.

"I'm sorry, hun," she said petting his hand like he was child, "baseball is a sport, a physical game played between people. Well, let's see. I'm not good at explaining things like this, but a game will be starting in a few minutes. See the mound in the middle of the diamond, there is a person there that throws the ball to the person where the chain link fence is located. The person there swings a baseball bat."

"I know what that is," said J.R. trying to affirm that he wasn't entirely clueless, "helped me out of a few situations."

Susie nodded, "well the hitter tries to…hit the ball…well, let's just wait for the game to start, than you'll understand it better."

"Okay," said J.R. as the stands began to fill up, mostly the older crowd was there for the game.

The teams came out, this was the first time J.R. saw vault dwellers not wearing the standard jumpsuits, wearing blue tee shirts and shorts for the Officers and white shirts and shorts for the Engineers. The limbered up to get ready to play ball. Once the umpire started the game, J.R. watched with apt attention, throwing questions to Susie who answered them to the best of her ability. As she answered, she even pointed out the people she knew that playing on the field; J.R. remembered the Officer that threatened him earlier was throwing the ball from the mound. A position Susie called the pitcher.

"Who's that guy, the pitcher for the officers," J.R. pointed to the guy on the mound that was looking at the catcher.

"Dear lord," said Susie as she held her head in her hand, "he hasn't bothered you, has he?"

J.R. thought it best to fib just a little, "I've seen him a few times."

"Well, that's my ex," she shook her head, "his name is Freddie Gomez. He and I are so over, don't worry about it. Just let me know if he bothers you, okay baby?"

Susie held J.R's face in her hand and leaned in to kiss him, "what would you do if he did something," he whispered and kissed her back, "I know you're bad ass and all. But I think I can take him."

She kissed on the side of his face and whispered in his ear, "my dad is pretty high up the command structure for the officers."

"Nepotism at its finest," J.R. joked as they continued to watch the game.

The former Overseer, Alphonse, entered the stadium and climbed the bleachers on the third base line where Susie and J.R. were sitting; he sat behind the pair and coughed loudly for the two to turn around and look at him, "your colleague is in the Overseer's office. He needs to see you."

J.R. nodded and told Susie he'd be right back. He followed the former Overseer to Amata's office. The young Overseer was laughing with Zach and passing back and forth his canteen. J.R. smirked, happy to see his colleague and to hear Amata's laugh.

"Still sharing that rot gut of yours with beautiful women," J.R. licked his large canine as he sat down in a chair.

"You have to try it, it is liquor made from punga," Zimm passed the canteen to J.R. who took a small swig and licked his lips, "sweet isn't it?"

"A little bitter too," added J.R. as he crossed his legs, "now what was so important to pull me from my first baseball game, I'm hoping it wasn't to taste this… pun-dka," J.R. combined the words punga and vodka to give the moonshine a new name.

"Pundka, I like it," commented Zimm as he took another sip, and put it away, "well, the main reason I'm here is to retrieve you. While having you here to learn more about the Vault is great, no offense," he said to Amata, "but it's isolating."

"I agree," said Amata as she looked between the two of them, she motioned for her dad to leave, "and you can continue what has been put in motion."

Zimm looked between the two of them, "is there something I'm missing?"

"Look, Amata, if I'm doing this the whole team needs to know as well," reasoned J.R., the Overseer nodded, "the Vault is looking to make an entrance into the greater world. They have the ability to produce stimpaks and other medical equipment."

"There will be some big money in that," said Zimm with a whistle.

"We're counting on it," said Amata with a smile.

"Speaking of which, I'd like to secure a small percentage for our services," said J.R. calmly, "I'm still waiting to hear back word from Cush, but if I'm out there representing this business I'd like our group to get some money for it."

"You're looking for a share over a one time payment," said Amata, "so no money up front at all."

"It'll be of shared interest to both of us to get the Vault out in the open and this venture profitable," said J.R. as he made his hands like scales.

"How much are you looking to make as a share," Amata was pondering.

"We wouldn't settle for anything under five percent," he said throwing a low-ball figure to them, "and considering the profit margin, that would be easy enough for you to make up."

Zimm looked to J.R. like he was crazy giving such a low number, "I'll think about it more," said the Overseer.

"Let's go get you packed up stud," said Zimm as he began to walkout of the room.

Amata stood up from behind her desk and walked over to J.R., "what's the real number you wanted."

J.R. whispered in her ear, "seven percent for my group, and three percent for me."

"That would be very generous of us," she whispered back quickly as Zimm turned to look at them.

"I know all of us from the Alexandria would thank you," said J.R. as brushed his hand against her.

"Come back soon, things won't be the same without our snarky outsider," she said and waved as he left.

"What's the operation," asked J.R. as they walked down the hallway to where he and Susan shared a room, _she is not going to like this one bit_.

"Someone from Tenpenny Tower will be coming to Megaton soon," said Zimm as a matter of fact, "and we'll need to get in to observe it."

"So using me to get in would be easy, I'm not sure dad would like to see me, to be honest," said J.R.

"We'll have to try something," answered Zimm, "because the Stahls and Simms do not have that level security with Moriarty."

"After what we did, don't you think he'll have me shot on the spot," said J.R. as he packed up, "if Bael told you to do this, he can kiss my ass."

Zimm pushed the other Operative in the chest, "what the fuck, man, do you think you're a Vaultie now? Hell, even the Overseer called you and outsider not more than ten minutes ago! This is the life we signed up for."

"I like keeping my head on my shoulders," replied J.R. as he stuffed items into his duffel bag and took out his combat armor, "and don't call them Vaulties, their just people."

"They're isolated from everyone else in the known fucking world," said Zach as he threw a jacket at J.R., "there is no way you could be one of them."

"You don't think I know that!" J.R. yelled in frustration while he threw the shoulder plates of his combat armor against the wall, "this is an escape, Zach, and escape from what is out there. You come here and ask me go out into the dust, the rads, and the sun to probably get my head filled with lead by my own dad? Fuck you, Zimm, fuck the Brotherhood, fuck the Alexandria…I'm happy for once…"

Zach slapped J.R. in the jaw making him stumble a bit, the black Operative steadied him back to a standing position, "I'm sorry I did that, but you need to get a grip, J.R. We have jobs that need to be done, and this will be one of the best ways to get it done. You are vital to us and this organization. Hell, Roe and I can't do anything in this area without you."

J.R. looked at Zimm as he rubbed his jaw, "I'm…you're right. I signed up and I have a duty, especially to you and Roe."

"What about me, babe?" Standing in the doorway was Susie Mack with her hands crossed in front of her chest, "the game's over and you didn't come back…I decided to check here first."

J.R. moved to her and held her in his arms, "my job is calling me away from you," he said, stealing a look back at Zimm, J.R. then said, "I promise you I'll return, Susie. I promise that."

"I'm going to go with you," she said, kissing the side of his cheek as she opened her dresser and removed the Vault Security outfit she took when exploring the wasteland, "I've been out there before, I can handle myself."

"No," ordered J.R. as he held her wrist and pulled her back.

"I'm going to just step outside…uh okay," Zimm moved out of the room and shut the door behind him.

"I don't need you to tell me what I can and can't do," said Susie with the fire in her eyes that J.R. loved.

"People get hurt on our missions, they are dangerous," he said as he let his hand caress her cheek, "I don't want to see you hurt ever."

"I want you to say it, Colin," Susie used his first given name over his nickname.

"Say what," J.R. asked, teasing her as he played dumb.

"Those three words," she clarified.

He had his mouth right next to her ear so she could feel his warm breathe, "I love you."

Her eyes were closed and she smiled before she said, "come back to me, in one piece," as they kissed before J.R. finished packing.

John Harkness had won the attention of the Specialists when he started to write out the schematics. He took a week to draw them out from their primary components to the secondary and optional items of improvement with the robotic limbs and gun scopes. Truth be told, he could have finished quicker, but he wanted to appear as human as possible. These Outcast loved technology more than life it self and his largest fear was to be discovered as a piece of tech.

Within that week, every medical test held by the Outcasts was done on the raider girl. A full map of her brain was complete; the Specialists that dealt with medicine knew best how to fix the situation. Unfortunately, there was no magic pill for her to take. The reported the main issue to Harkness, who did not know her previous history and could not comment. The semi-comatose state occurred from the combination of several chems that included, but were not limited to, psycho, mentats, buffout, med-x, and several inhalers of jet. The clear aftereffect was that the combined use led to the dulling of her cognitive sense to the barest existence of sentient life.

The Outcast could spare one injection of detox, but she would need a lot more to truly help her recover. That was when Harkness renegotiated the deal with Casdin to include an escort to Megaton, which the Protector did not appreciate. However, when the Specialists were able to confirm that the schematics were legitimate and began to produce prototypes Casdin agreed to Harkness' terms. The Outcast leader sent a three person team with Harkness and the Raider girl who had regained her mobility.

Defenders Anne Marie Morgan, Rococo Rockfowl and Arthur Wilderman were not to happy being put on an escort mission for a couple of wasters, they made certain to surround the two of them in a triangle shape and watch out for raiders. Harkness could here them communicating through their internal short wave comm units but decided not to comment. He held the arm of the Raider girl to guide her as they walked.

"I hope Casdin isn't going soft," commented Wilderman to the others, "he better not turn into another Lyons."

"Shut your hole, Artie," ordered Rococo over the comms, "you haven't gained enough cred to bad mouth the Protector."

"I'm just saying, if we're doing these fucking escorts for the yokels, who knows what is next," Wilderman scanned the wasteland with laser rifle.

"The schematics are genuine is what I heard from the Specialists," Morgan commented as she looked back at Harkness, all of the Defenders were wearing former Enclave armor that was painted red and had the Outcast gear with a downward sword through it.

"So what has this guy even given us," pressed Wilderman, "that other waster gave us some tech that was out of this world."

Morgan caressed her modified plasma pistol that used a hyper advanced power cell, "it's been good tech. The last schematic he promised would help the armor of our robots and possibly power armor."

All Harkness could hear was the Defender named Wilderman grunt and agreement as the continued in silence before Rococo spoke next, "I have movement at seven o'clock, repeat, movement at seven."

The Defenders all turned to the back left side and staged them selves behind what little protection the wasteland had to offer. Harkness and the Raider girl were crouch right next Defender Morgan who was in the middle of the formation. Five raiders came up the horizon and opened fired on the Outcast, they were using assault rifles, which were advanced technology for raiders, and hand grenades. There was one more piece of advanced technology as a raider launched a rocket propelled grenade to Morgan's position.

Rococo was able to spot it first and yelled out, "incoming RPG!"

Morgan looked up, fear in her eyes behind her helmet as she knew a direct hit could kill her. She tried to move out of the way be lost her footing on wasteland's loose gravel. Then she felt something grab a hold of her and threw her in the air before she felt a loud hit and explosion. That moment of fear gripped her as she held her eyes closed wondering if she had just been hit by the rocket propelled grenade and died.

She could still hear the firefight between her fellow Outcasts and the raiders along with the pounding of blood in her ears. Resigned that she hadn't died, she looked up to see Wilderman and Rockfield dispatch the last raider from his mortal shell. Scanning her head she was able to see what had happened to the RPG attack.

Harkness was able to calculate where the grenade was going to hit and prayed to what ever force that gave him free thought that what he was about to do would work. He had picked up Defender Morgan from her the back plating of her power armor and threw her to the side as he then huddled down and over the raider girl to shield her. The organic skin that covered his harden metal frame and body would not stand up to an explosion, but it was better than having a death he could have prevented on his conscience. The rocket propelled grenade hit the wastes a good three feet from where Harkness huddled over the Raider girl to protect her. The heat form the blast washed over him quickly as it made a small crater and kicked up dirt, his side stung with pain. The android looked down to see his right side having exposed flesh that was burnt away at small patches to show his metallic insides.

The worst part was two rather large pieces of shrapnel had been lodged into him. Hydraulic fluid was leaking slowly from his side in a dribble down the shards of grenade. Harkness could hear the fighting but was more concerned on his health as he rolled onto his side off the Raider girl who was alive, and put his hand in the pool of fluid. He brought it up to his eyes to see a cream color. The android put it to his lips and tasted the fluid; the hydraulic line that had been cut was lubricant. The dirt from the wasteland had turned the pure white color so that Harkness didn't recognize it right away.

He knew he wasn't going to die at the moment but Harkness needed to get treatment before he lost too much hydraulic lubricant and his parts seized up. He heard the firefight end and the foot falls of one of the Defenders making his way to him, trying his best to reach out and turn on his back, even though it was more damaged, to see them and face what he knew was coming.

"Maxson's steel balls! What the fuck are you," exclaimed Morgan as she could see the burnt away flesh and mechanic components under Harkness.

"It's a…long story," said the android as he turned his leg over to hear the others approaching, Wilderman and Rockfield all exclaimed as well, "listen, I need to get to Megaton now, did any of those fucks have bandages on them."

"Tell us what the fuck you are first," said Wilderman as he crouched down looked at the wounds on Harkness' side he touched one of the pieces of grenade shrapnel making a cream color liquid spurt out and Harkness screamed in pain."

"You fuck!" Yelled the android, "I'm a fucking person is what I am! For fucks sake, don't touch that! Holy crap! Fuck. I need to see a doctor quickly, and then I'll explain."

Morgan was guessing as to what really had saved her from the explosion, she picked up Wilderman by his shoulder plates, "go search the bodies, find bandages, clothe, or a jacket, I don't care. And get it now."

Rockfowl helped Harkness up onto his feet and allowed him to lean against him as Morgan helped the Raider girl up, he said to the android, "I saw what you did…thank you."

Harkness smiled and replied, "gratitude for a local from the Outcast? You guys must be going soft."

Wilderman returned with several swathes of clothe and helped tie them around the torso of Harkness tightly and one around his neck and down over his right arm and side to add extra protection in hiding the wound. They continued moving to Megaton, at a slower pace because of Harkness' wounds but the android kept pushing himself to speed up more as the bandages began to become soaked with his lubricant. They then crossed the hill and saw the high walls of Megaton.

**A/N:** First, and foremost, I must thank AugustinianFrog for reading over this chapter for me. They have been very helpful to me through their example of great fanfiction, ideas, and comments. Secondly, thank you all for reading and keeping with this series. I adore comments, so please review after you read. I listen


	4. The First Spy

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 4.) The First Spy

Operatives Zach Zimm and J.R. passed through the protective gate into the bustling minor city of a few honest people run by scoundrels. The on scoundrel, Colin Moriarty Senior, the Operatives did not wish to interact with right at that moment. The plan was to meet with Billy Creel to find out any details from the caravans. Creel had dealt with caravans for his whole life, whether if it was for shipping lanes or security. But the establishment of a commerce hub at Canterbury Commons meant less small and medium sized caravan traffic.

Every once and a while, besides the large established caravans based from Canterbury Commons, smaller caravans for one time trade would pass by Megaton. Creel now made his living helping these one time trade caravans through the rough country of the Capital Wasteland. His house was a mess of hand drawn maps, names and contact information, along with random children's toys. The Operatives had walked behind the shacks and erected buildings to get to Creel's place.

It was the best path to avoid the balcony that Moriarty watched his town. Billy was home and rushing about his place with files in his hands. Occasionally he would saw something about one of the few caravans that would be coming into Megaton. J.R. and Zimm were trying to get the attention of Creel who had let them in and immediately forgotten about them.

The door opened as the twelve year old Maggie walked in and threw her books on the side table. She looked up to see the man that raised her in a manic state. She cared for her adoptive father, truly the only adult she could remember in her life, and the state he had put himself in with the caravan alliance forming caused her some deep seated emotional pain. Maggie went to the kitchen and quickly brewed some herbal tea. Creel wrapped his hands around the tea cup and sipped it slowly.

He paused for minute and sat down, "thank you, Maggie," Billy inhaled the steam to clear his nasal passages, "it's been tough ever since these caravans made a union together. I'm sorry for not paying attention earlier, guys. You're here about the recent Tenpenny caravan, yes?"

J.R. nodded, "we know someone is coming in, we just need to know when."

Creel clicked his fingers and Maggie got his schedule, "thank you dear…no let's see, it'll be back here…in five days time."

"Thank you, Billy," said Zimm as he and J.R. stood up to leave, "if you heed us for the next five days, we'll be at the Brass Lantern."

They wrapped their faces in clothe and Zimm put on his biker goggle and they stepped out of Creel's place and walked down the ramps. The Operatives were crossing the earthen bottom of Megaton as the shadow of nuclear Armageddon spread over them with the changing position of the sun. Chromwell was spouting his verses for his cult from the irradiated pool surrounding the unexploded atomic bomb of the old world. Jericho was waiting for them with several of his men, blocking the way to the Brass Lantern.

"The boss wants to see you two," he said as hi spit a wad of tar from the corner of his mouth, his voice more like a ghoul than usual.

All J.R. and Zimm did was nod. They were led by the guards to Moriarty's Saloon. The music from GNR filled the room. Jericho lifted his thumb up to Gob, the ghoul bartender, who turned the volume on the radio higher. Nova noticed the change in volume and invited her client upstairs to get more comfortable behind closed doors. Jericho led the two operatives to the back room.

Colin Moriarty Senior was already sitting patiently. He nodded and Jericho forced J.R. to sit in front of his dad while Zimm was forced to sit in a chair by two guards holding him down. A third guard stood behind where Zimm was sitting and struggling against his colleagues. He pulled out a small five inch blade and held the cool steel to the Operative's cheek to make him stop struggling.

Colin Moriarty Senior turned to his son, "I'm only going to ask this once, I hope you'd have the common decency to honor me."

J.R. gulped audibly, "yes da," he slipped into his Irish brogue more while around his father.

"If ya lie to me, lad," said the crime boss and mayor of Megaton as he nodded to the guard with the blade to Zimm, "your friend will find it hard to whistle a tune;" the guard opened Zimm's mouth by putting pressure at two points on his jaw while the operative struggled as the blade was inserted into his mouth.

J.R. nodded and tried to remain calm as Jericho held him down. The guard then sliced into Zimm's cheek cutting through it on the right side. The blade went all the way through the muscle and flesh to increase the total size of Zach's mouth. He screamed out and cut his own tongue on the blade before it left his mouth. Sobbing as the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and soaked the front of his jacket and combat armor. J.R. stuggled against his chair as Jericho firmly held him down, "what the fuck, da? Do it to me! Leave him out of this! Jesus…Mary…and Joseph!"

Moriarty Sr, smacked his son upside the head, "don't us the lord's name in vain, I've taught you better than that, lad. That was to let you know I'm serious, the same will happen to the otha side of his face if you lie to me. And for you benefit, lad, I'd never scar my own flesh and blood. Now you're going to answer me truthfully. Now were you part of that dog Ashkelon's foolhardy coup attempt?"

"J.R. looked his dad in the eyes, "Ashkelon did that shit on his own. But I wouldn't call it coup."

Colin Moriarty Senior gripped his son's shoulder, "I believe you, son. Go get your friend to the Clinic."

J.R. picked Zimm up from the chair and passed him a rolled up face wrap to put against his cut opened cheek, "you're fucked up, you know that, da?"

Moriarty just looked back to his son and said, "I'm sane, lad. This is just a fucked up world."

The Outcasts rushed into Megaton, Defender Rococo Rckfowl was practically caring John Harkness. The Raider girl from Alexandria was being led by Defender Anne Marie Morgan, while Defender Arthur Wilderman asked around for where the clinic was located. Half of the residents thought the Enclave had returned because of the armor the Outcasts wore, the guards owned by Moriarty saw the symbols and red paint of the Outcasts. The guards pointed their weapons with apprehension at the three Defenders. Jerhico's men preferred not to have an open firefight and yelled at the Outcasts to drop their weapons; Defender Wilderman was yelling back in return that they need to get to the town doctor immediately.

The Outcasts were not known for helping the wastelanders, and seeing one or a few in a large settlement meant that these former Brotherhood of Steel members wanted some piece of technology deemed too advanced for public use. The guards were not buying their need for a clinic, the Outcasts never asked for help from wastelanders and to do so was seen as weakness in their circle. However, few Outcasts knew that there had been deals made with locals for gathering technology, like that between Protector Casdin and the Lone Wanderer. Most of the technology worn by the Outcasts, especially the Enclave armor, had been provided in trade by the Lone Wanderer. Jericho walked between his guards and the Outcasts, looking at Wilderman and the other two Defenders in their red painted Enclave armor that made them look like demons of the Capital Wasteland.

"What do you want," he barked in a tone that treated the Outcasts like a cancerous disease.

"We need to get to the clinic for these two," said Defender Wilderman as Harkness sagged from Rockfowl's grip.

Jericho looked up to the balcony where Moriarty was perched over his city, "there is a security deposit of a hundred caps."

Wilderman cocked his head to the side, "you expect us to pay, _raider_."

Jericho walked between the Defenders and lifted the slumped head of Harkness from his chest to see his pale face by the androids sweat soaked hair, "you're a security risk, and he looks like he's got some kind of…sickness…to him."

Defender Morgan simply stated, "that's why we are here, waster."

Harkness moved his hand into his satchel and removed a pouch, "a hundred caps," he feigned a cough to get Jericho to take the pouch and back away from him, "please let me see the doctor."

Jericho opened the pouch and eye ball calculated the caps, he raised his hand to the guards and motioned for them to lower their weapons, "keep your guns in check while you're in town and finish your business quickly."

Defender Wilderman turned to Morgan, who nodded, and the Outcast shouldered his laser rifle on his back. The Megaton guards lowered their iron but kept a keen eye on the Outcasts. Morgan and Rockfowl helped the Raider girl and Harkness into the clinic. The doctor was already treating a patient that had recently entered with his friend assisting. Operative Zachary Zimm was sitting up on the gurney as J.R. held gauze on his cheek.

The doctor was dark skinned with white hair and beard, "what happened? How long ago?" He asked of the Outcasts as he helped Harkness onto the gurney, "this is my clinic, I'm Doc Church, and I need answers people."

"Is there a town engineer," asked the android from the gurney, "get me the engineer. Tell him to bring machinery fluid, hydraulic lubricant, scrap metal and a welding torch."

Doc Church turned to the Outcasts, Morgan had already set the girl across from the Operatives, "what is he talking about?"

"Arthur, did you hear the list," asked Rococo from the foot of Harkness' gurney, the Defender nodded, "where is the town engineer?"

"Just let me take a look at his injuries," said the doctor as he moved the cape aside, the Outcast Defender put a hand on his chest and pushed him back, "this is my clinic and if you want his man to live I need to address his wounds."

"Where is the engineer, quack," asked Rococo as he gripped the collar of the doctor, his voice cold and metallic even without the power helmet.

Church coughed for breath, another occasion when brawn had beaten him once again, three levels above us. Water Processing Plant, his name is Walter."

Rockfowl nodded to Wilderman who ran out of the clinic and up the ramp over it. Anne Marie Morgan turned her back on the Raider girl, making sure the poor creature didn't touch her. Zimm looked into the Raider girls face and recognized her. His eyes widen as he spoke up to J.R.

"It's her! J.R. it's the girl from the Alexandria," he said through one side of his mouth.

"I haven't finished your stitches," said the doctor as he chastised the Operative for speaking out, "and seeing as I'm not allowed to treat my other patient…"

"We're not stopping you, Quack," corrected Morgan, "we just think you won't be able to help that one out too much."

"I have over thirty years experience," replied Doc Church, "and stop calling me quack."

"With your level of medicine, waster, that's what it comes down to, quackery," commented Rococo as he held his arms across his chest.

Wilderman returned at that moment with a confused looking old man that could only be described as wizened, who turned out to he the engineer named Walter, "can I get to my job now, please," asked the doctor with utter disdain.

Rockfowl nodded as Wilderman pushed the engineer forward; the doctor removed the cape and saw the cloth wrapped around Harkness' ribs, "what did this?"

"Fragmentation grenade," said Harkness, Church got a pair of scissors out, "get the engineer closer."

"Why am I here, what do ya' need?" asked Walter.

"You'll see," was all Harkness replied, not making the nervous situation easier for the engineer.

The doctor was cutting the last bandage away when a squirt of white liquid shot into the air. The doctor and other two patients were shocked, but the Defenders remained calm. Harkness gritted his teeth as another squirt of his hydraulic lubricant shot into the air from his torn up side. The doctor turned to J.R.

"Your jacket, now," Church ordered as he ripped it from J.R. with some assistance from the Operative and applied pressure to the wound.

"Brotherhood," commented Rockfowl as h pointed out the marking on J.R.'s left breast of his combat armor, "get them out of here now!"

J.R. became defensive as he looked between the Outcasts and Harkness, "what the fuck was that," he asked and pointed to white liquid coming from the android.

The engineer and doctor were looking at the open wound as Harkness commented, "mustah moved around a bit in me when we got here."

"Wilderman, get these Lyons ass-kissers out of here now," ordered Morgan.

Defender Arthur Wilderman nodded as he put a hand on J.R.'s chest," get you and your friend's stuff and get out of here."

"Like hell we will traitor," replied J.R. as Wilderman pushed the two of them, Zimm included, out of the door; once outside the Outcast Defender asked, "do you have a place where we can talk?"

Harkness turned his head to the doctor and engineer, "get me a mirror, I'm going to talk you two through this operation together."

Outside of the clinic, J.R. was without his jacket or words, while Zimm could only hold his tongue to prevent it from hurting his mouth more. An Outcast Defender had asked the two Operatives, after finding out they worked from the Brotherhood of Steel, for a sit down meeting. The Brotherhood of Steel and the Outcasts saw each other as traitors and brothers through a duality. To the Outcasts, the Brotherhood of Steel under Elder Lyons had betrayed the core beliefs of the Western Brotherhood and the founder Maxson. To the Brotherhood of Steel, the Outcasts had betrayed the leadership of Elder Lyons and mutinied from the order. Between the two organizations there were strict orders of non-violence because despite their animosity towards each other, they both felt as they were fruits from the same scion. This non-violence relationship was strengthened with no communication and a general feeling of blind hatred.

When Defender Arthur Wilderman asked for a place for where they can all talk, the Operatives were stunned, "there is the…uhm…Brass Lantern," answered J.R.

Wilderman nodded, "lead the way."

Andy Stahl was behind the front counter, "no. No! You can not bring this into my establishment. A freaking Outcast! I can't have an injured man here, bleeding everywhere. Fuck…Colin, what are you thinking?"

"Well, fuck you too Stahl," mumbled Zimm and winced at the pain from his cheek, "can I get some fucking whiskey…and a new fucking bandage."

Zimm threw the bloody gauze on a table to expose the course black Brahmin sinew that only kept together half his wound. He'd have to see Doc Church to get the rest finished. The doctor used some coagulant to slow the bleeding, but the moving muscles in the face allowed for blood to still trickle out. The worst for the Operative was the cut on his tongue because like any other wound in the mouth the first instinct was to explore it with the tongue. The added pain cause him to wince, grimace, and placed his mood in a sour state. Stahl put a bottle of vodka down on the table with three glasses.

"Stronger proof," said Andy as he nodded to Zimm's pain, "I'll see if there are any bandages."

Defender Wilderman sat down and removed his helmet to show his plain face in a recon helmet, "would you mind locking the door too?"

Andy turned to J.R. as he pointed a thumb to Wilderman's direction, "is he serious? You know I have a business to run right, my place can't be some conference room for you."

"I can see its booming," commented Wilderman to the empty room, "but we need to have a private discussion."

Andy Stahl turned to Colin Moriarty Junior, "I don't take orders from anyone."

"It needs to be a very private discussion," said J.R. as he watched Zimm down another glass of vodka and wince as he slide a healthy amount of caps across the table to Andy, "this is triple the amount for the bottle."

Andy locked the door and turned around, "I'll take my time looking for the bandages in the backroom, Zach."

"Take your time," said Wilderman as Zimm stared at the Outcast with pained hatred.

Zimm downed a third glass of vodka, some dribbled out from the hole in his cheek making him wince more, "son of a bitch!"

"Take it easy, Zach," J.R. reached out to take the bottle but it was closer to Zimm and he held the bottle to pour a forth glass.

"He says to 'take it easy'," the operative mumbled to himself, "well it helps with the pain from this fucking disgrace. Thanks to your dad."

J.R. tried some humor, "at least chicks dig scars."

"Fuck you," said Zimm as he drank straight from the bottle.

"You're going to rip your stitches," said J.R. in concern.

"It's already permanent," grumbled Zimm.

"Are you kids seriously Brotherhood, or did you just steal your armor from dead initiates?" Wilder commented in disdain to Zimm and J.R. for their bickering.

J.R. turned his attention back to the Outcast, "we've been in the shit for a year now."

"Elder Lyons finally decided to branch out to the locals," the comment was meant to entice the Operatives into another bickering match, but they knew the time was to listen, "my name is Arthur Wilderman."

J.R. pointed to Zimm and did the introduction, "Operative Zachary Zimm and I'm Operative J.R."

"J.R.? I thought the shop keep called you Colin," the Outcast was confused.

"He is … a fucking… Moriarty," slurred Zimm as he was well on the way to getting completely sloshed.

"It was your idea to come back into this town, Zimm," replied J.R., "I was fine doing my business in the Vault, but you wanted to pull me from there for this place."

"You two are like a married couple," Wilderman rubbed his face second guessing talking with new recruits, "I'll just call you J.R., it'll be easier that way. What is this Operative thing?"

"What exactly are you looking for, Outcast," J.R.'s demeanor had turned cold in the question and answer session with the Wilderman.

"I guess the beginning is the best place," Defender Arthur Wilderman said tapping his fingers to the table, "two years ago, Elder Lyons approached me for a job. In my past life I was Knight Artemis of the Brotherhood of Steel. I have been giving monthly reports to Elder Lyons on the Outcasts, their movements and holding positions."

"So you're saying that you're an embedded Brotherhood Operative with the Outcasts," J.R. put two and two together.

"Bullshit," called out Zimm before he leaned back in his chair more.

Wilder tossed his holotags onto the counter, "most Outcast tags have been updated by Scribe Jameson to read deserter. Mine shows that I've maintained my position and rank in the Brotherhood. You can also talk with Paladin Vargas, he was my closest friend and can vouch for my character."

J.R. flipped the holotag in his hand, reading Knight Arthur "Artemis" Wilderman and showing the face sitting before him, he threw them back, "means shit, but don't think we're not going to double check everything you tell us."

"Now you're sounding a little more like a Brotherhood recruit," Knight Artemis commented, "my communication with Elder Lyons was through a dead drop at the Nuka Cola Plant in a garbage can. The messages I've left for the Elder haven't been picked up in over a month."

"A dead drop?" Questioned J.R., Artemis explained the system of leaving a locked note with a live grenade that only the recipient knew the code, "why haven't we been involved with this…operation?"

Zimm was in a drunken stupor, barely able to keep his eyelids up, as Artemis leaned in closer to J.R., "why would you two have been briefed on my operation?"

"We're Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services," J.R. furrowed his brow as he tried to recall any words from Bael or Yearling about the Outcasts.

"Lyons told me I'd have been rolled into another service, never mentioned which one and it's been two years and it hasn't happened," answered Artemis in concern as he tapped his fingers nervously, "it's been difficult working for Casdin when my thoughts go back to what I was…am…it is so difficult to tell what's true sometimes."

"When did you last exchange information with Elder Lyons," asked the Operative.

"My last swap with the Elder was around six or seven weeks ago," said the undercover Knight.

"I hate to tell you this, Knight, but Elder Lyons fell ill a little over a month ago in Graydtich, he is currently unconscious," J.R. was straight to the point, "Scribe Rothchild has been running the show as Lyons hand picked him as his successor."

"So Rothchild has been selected by Elder Lyons to be the new Elder? Without consent from the Western Founders…do you realize the shit storm this will cause in Casdin's camp?" Artemis for the first time seemed incredible nervous.

"The Outcasts are really out of the loop from current events," commented J.R., "Casdin will find out way or another."

"The Outcasts make it a point not to get involved in local affairs," Artemis said, repeating the lines he so often heard from his traitorous brothers-in-arms, "they're, we're, beginning to see Lyon's camp as a local affair now."

"What do you think Casdin will do with the information," asked J.R. biting his bottom lip.

"Ol' Henry will try to contact the Western Brotherhood to see what they advised," said Artemis with unblinking eyes, "he might even try to get himself appointed Elder of the Capital Wasteland…"

"That'll be difficult because we do have that one ace up our sleeve," J.R. was referring to the housing and education of Arthur Maxson, the boy king of the Brotherhood of Steel from west to east coast.

"Why ..hiccough…why was Roe's…girl with you," slurred Zimm from his stupor.

J.R. cleaned up the spittle at the corner of Zimm's uninjured cheek, "I had completely forgotten that was how this all started."

"You mean the raider druggie? She was with that guy we were ordered to escort here." Artemis thought nothing of the two except was Harkness even really a man.

"Thought Outcasts kept out of local affairs," answered J.R. before he explained, "and that raider druggie was from when we took over a building, a good frie… colleague of ours made it his decision to help heal her."

"Tough bit of luck he'd have with that," answered the Knight, "we all saw her medical report, besides a history of constant abuse she was overdosed on so many chems her brain practically shut off."

"So she's dead?" J.R. was confused.

"No, but maybe with a few liters of detox and a couple of weeks to clear her system and months rehab she'll be good as her previous fucked up state," answered the Knight with a laugh, "why'd you save anyone in that state is way too much work."

J.R. thought for moment keeping silent, Zimm pleasantly added, "bitch tried to take my head off…hiccough… but I got her just as good…stupid raider…bitch…tried to a… to attack me with armor on!"

"Well that explains all the chems she took," answered Artemis as he tossed his hand mid way in the air.

The white liquid flashed into J.R.'s head, "who was that guy with you…was it even a …man?"

"They call him John Harkness, he traded some pretty high grade post-War tech for passage here," answered Artemis.

"Did you say post-War technology?" Questioned the Operative confirm, "how is that even possible… we've been looking for this guy."

"We?" Artemis wanted to make sure who was being referred to in the pronoun.

"The Brotherhood," answered J.R. before he elaborated, "this… Harkness…escaped from some Operatives that were holding him at headquarters. He also caught the attention of Rothchild when one of his Scribes was nearly killed."

"I can't just let you take him," said Artemis as he shook his head, "too many questions would be asked."

"I just need some time, keep them here for a week and I'll see what can be arranged," J.R. knew well he couldn't plan anything this big without a few key players.

Daniel Roe had finished his meeting with Ashkelon, warden of Springvale Prison, and entered his second home: Crowley's Casino. He was just about to get a guard to head downstairs and discuss the deal with Crowley when his eyes went to the cards. Roe bit his bottom lip ad he eyed the blackjack table closely and he could hear his pounding heart in his ears. Without realizing his feet had even begun to move, Dan had stepped closer to the card table and swung his leg over the stool to sit down. The dealer smiled to him, his face having become a regular fixture in the mini-casino.

Dan mindlessly opened his cap pouch and placed a bet when the dealer called for them. He checked his cards, eight of diamonds and five of clubs. The dealer turned to him and he tapped his cards to indicate he wanted another. The next card was turned over and ten of diamonds put him over to a bust. Having lost the only thought on Roe's mind was to get it back and then to push his luck. The risk, the adventure, the adrenaline were renewed in his bloodstream with every new deal.

Lost for hours, Roe didn't even know until and unpleasant sight brought him out of his gambling high. The scribe, Actaeon, stood besides Roe with filthy woman with her hair done in little horns. The woman looked and smelt like a slaver, the Operative was not surprised at the company the scribe kept. Roe couldn't help but curl his lips in disgust.

"What do you want," he rudely asked of Actaeon.

"Is that anyway for you to greet a good friend of yours," Actaeon pointed to the woman, "this is Carolina Red."

"I'd say it was a pleasure, but I'd prefer a deathclaw," answered Roe as he turned back to his card table.

"Mice little habit you have here, Roe," said Actaeon as he pushed more caps up for Dan to bet, "did I just do something bad?"

"What do you and your cooz want," asked Roe extremely annoyed at that moment.

"Well, you know how you said you would help me find Harkness?" Asked the Scribe, Dan squinted.

"I said I'd keep an earout for the name," corrected the Operative.

"Carolina here is presenting me with an opportunity…" the Scribe was trying to be obvious and discreet at the same time; it was not working out well.

"An opportunity to finally lose your virginity or remove that stick from your ass," asked Roe, trying to demean the ego of the Scribe.

"I'm not a whore," replied Carolina in anger.

"I believe you," Roe was anxious to get back to his cards.

"You'd prefer to fuck a Brahmin anyway," she rejoined, "dumber and easier for you to get. Not to mention the two heads make you think it's a threesome."

"You done," asked the Operative with consternation.

"Look, I don't know your deal with this tight ass," she mean the scribe, "but I need a merc team for a mission."

"Higher Talon," said Roe as he turned to the Talon Company mercenaries at the counter, "she needs a job."

"I bet she does," grunted the mercenary as he blew a kiss to Carolina Red.

Carolina punched the merc in the face and slammed his head onto the counter. The guards surrounded her quickly ready to kick her out but Dan waved them off. The ghouls grumbled under their face wraps and dragged the Talon mercenary away. Dan turned to Carolina Red to berate her.

"This isn't like any other saloon in the wasteland," he pointed out the guards, "they don't mind tossing your ass out or putting a few holes in your flesh. They don't like our smoothskin very much anyway."

"Fuck'em and Talon," Carolina said, "I need men with balls who can get the job done. He thinks you're such a man."

"Thanks," Roe turned back to his cards, "but no thanks."

"Three hundred caps," Carolina pushed trying to higher the Operative, "All I need is six men."

"And a bath," added Roe, "I don't get up in the morning for three hundred caps."

"Three hundred plus expenses," she pushed.

Roe shook his head, "I would need more."

"How much more," Carolina asked.

"What is the job first," Roe folded his arms in front of his chest, "I won't put out any offer till I know the terms of the mission."

"There is a settlement in the North that is hording weapons, food, and aqua pura. Worst of all, they are trying to come on the slaving market…" Carolina had worked out the mission brief with Actaeon to gain the appropriate response from Dan, "it's called the Republic."

"I've heard of it," said Roe as his thoughts went back to old settlement known as the Republic of Dave, "what is the plan?"

"Before a direct attack on the Republic, we're to cut off the trading lane Canterbury Commons," Carolina let the threat of an attack on Roe's home town to manipulate him into action.

It had worked and Roe had fallen for it, "if I am a part of this mission, there will be no movement against the Commons."

"Only if you are part of this mission will Canterbury Commons go unharmed," answered Carolina.

"Make it five hundred caps," said Dan as he turned back to the cards.

Carolina put five pouches on the table along with a piece of paper, "be at that location in two weeks. Fail me and you'll have a lot to answer for. I will find you, your family, and your friends and put a collar on them."

"Understood," Roe said as he gathered the pouches before the dealer took them as a bet, "if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with someone that is far more important than you two."

"Shouldn't we be on our way as well," said Actaeon to the slaver as Roe sneered at them and walked to one of the guards, "and thank you, Dan."

Roe didn't acknowledge the scribe as he turned to Crowley's ghoul guards, "I need to see your boss."

The ghoul nodded and led him downstairs, "interesting friends that one keeps," commented Carolina.

"Now it's time to fulfill your end of the deal," the scribe said as they walked out of the casino.

"Head west," she said as they walked past the whore house.

"What is out west, and who is this guy," asked Actaeon.

"Jury Street Metro Station and one of the best bounty hunters in all of the wasteland," Carolina said with a small smile, "opportunity makes strange bed fellows, doesn't it?"

"Before you even think of getting in my bed, you'd need to scrub yourself for a week, with steel wool, slaver," said the Scribe as they crossed over the hill out of Springvale.

"Dumb shit, you don't even know what to do with a lady, let alone your own bits," retorted Carolina as she continued walking, "but you know what I was talking about. A good upstanding boy like yourself and a classy lady like me…"

"When I see a lady, I'll inform you," he said while pulling his hood down more and then taking the extra fabric to protect his mouth from the dust and dirt.

Carolina pulled out some biker goggles from her pocket for protection of her eyes, "it'll take us a few hours to get there, maybe half of day."

The sun bleached the earth, the dust and dirt carried by the wind battered the scribe and the slaver as they headed west. Rotting corpses of mole rats meant someone had been by recently enough to been attacked or in need of food. The buildings off in the distance stood like eyesores in the barren landscape even though they were less than three stories tall. If tumbleweeds still grew, the entrance of Scribe Actaeon and Carolina red would have been the opening of a 1960's Western. There was no movement at Jury Street, nor the Metro Station entrance.

The wind whipped against the buildings making a low grinding sound. There was a diner with no windows and two buildings in working condition; one was a grocery store and the other was an electronics supplier. Actaeon turned to Carolina and moved his hand against the background of the apparently empty area. The unsaid question was: why are we in this ghost town?

Carolina held her hands cupped around her mouth, "Samuel Warrick, Sam Warrick, ya there?"

She kept shouting out his name as the sun was past its high point and still directly shinning on him. He moved the Brahmin leather brimmed hat from his face. The bright rays of sun that got through the clouds illuminated his tan middle-aged face; his trademark sunglasses protected his eyes. He grumbled while brushing his sweat dampened and greasy hair back away from his face. Living his life as he did, his naturally dark hair had blond highlights. He picked up his sniper rifle and leaned forward from the reclined lawn chair to get up.

Standing at six foot and three inches, Samuel Warrick was easy to spot standing above the scribe and slaver on the electronics store, "girl, will yeh shut your noise? My query is down 'ere," his accent placed him from some where south of the Capital Wasteland.

"Warrick, get your leather chap wearing ass down here," ordered Carolina as the bounty hunter smiled.

"What are you an' the hood doin' these parts, Carolina," he asked as he sat on the edge of the building with the sniper rifle on his lap.

"Got a job for you, Sam," she said pointing a thumb to Actaeon, "he needs to find a man."

"Give 'em direction to Madame's at the Mills," Sam fiddled with is rifle, "I'm already on a job for the Foreman."

"Doesn't look like much of a job," Carolina said, "for him to come to your front step."

"The boy tried to hire me for protection," Sam laughed and shook his head, "took his caps upfront and before I could take him down he ducked into the diner. 'Bout a week back."

Actaeon spoke up for the first time to Sam, "what makes you think he's still there?"

Sam stopped smiling, "so the hood can speak? Well, I know he's there because I'm good at what I do, boy. He's about out of food and ready to eat a bullet, or he's already done it."

"We didn't see anyone in the diner," said the Scribe.

"Hold on, I'll be down in a second," said Warrick as he climbed down the ladder and out of the electronic shop, "let's go see about good Prime."

"Why did the Foreman want Prime," Carolina was referring to the leader of Evergreen Mills and the bounty offered to Warrick.

"Prime apparently got Foreman's sister pregnant," laughed Sam as he turned to Carolina, "didn't even know the little guy was potent. I tell ya what, if that kid is smart as Prime and beautiful as Larissa, the Mills might have a good future."

The three of them walked into the empty diner, Warrick moved behind the counter and swore out loud. The bounty hunter slung the rifle on his should. He knelt down and lifted some unused food onto the diner counter. Actaeon stepped behind the counter to see a headless body sitting in a corner leaning forward against a strange Chinese Assault rifle.

"Fucking Prime," seethed Warrick as he pushed the bloated body to the side as air slowly escaped the body and picked up the rifle, "can never make it easy for me, could yeh?"

"What do you mean," asked the Scribe.

"He damn well knew the bounty called for his head," said Sam as he checked Prime's pockets, "fucker sold out short on me, he 'ad five hundred more caps. So what is it you need, hood?"

Actaeon explained who his target was to the bounty hunter as Sam continued to check Prime's body, "he need to be found alive, for questioning."

"I get you," said Sam as he picked up Prime's belongings for himself, "what's the pay?"

"I was hoping you'd do this for free," said Actaeon.

Warrick burst out laughing, "Carolina, is this boy serious, fah free?"

"'fraid so," Carolina pursed her lips, "but I'm sure you'll love his company."

Sam sighed, "I rather get caps, but I guess I can use yeh, boy. Grab that there body."

"Er…'scuse me?" The Scribe looked to the bloated and decaying headless corpse.

"If Imma gonna help yeh, you're gonna help meh," the bounty hunter passed two leather belts from the counter of the diner to Actaeon, "best tah strap it tah yeh back at the waist and under yeh arms."

"Doesn't sound like the first time you've hauled a body around," commented Actaeon.

"Gotta collect your bounties," said Warrick as he moved out of the diner, "hurry up will yah, I wanta get to the Mills before that fucker attracts all the animals of the wasteland."

Operative Anna LaCroix was with Elias but not in the servants' quarters where they prayed. They were in the basement of the Alexandria, which was the location of the utilities like the trash incinerator and gray water system. The gray water system allowed for the conservation of potable water in a closed system. Anything not used for food or drinking went through a cleaning process of sand and charcoal filtration, boiling from the heat given off by the incinerator and a light form of irradiation at levels barely dectable in the world at present. In the former USA where your enemy was radiation, it also became your friend: the Atom.

In this utility area was three cages kept over from the former inhabitants of the Alexandria. The constant sound of running water, boiling water, and high levels of heat given off by the incinerator was a physical and psychological torture all in one. The reasons for it's existence was based out of Star Paladin Bael's mind. Knight Captain Galeas was currently holding one of the servants, Kimi Mahal, there as punishment for abetting Harkness and the raider girl in escaping the Alexandria.

The servant was drinking a glass of water holding it with both hands like a sacred relic, "easy, Kimi, easy. Let me refill your glass," said Elias as he poured the pitcher to fill her glass again.

"Why do you help her," asked LaCroix of Elias, "she's a traitor."

"Come here to gloat, murderer," said Kimi Mahal with chapped lips; she was in shorts and a dirty tank top that clung to her with sweat.

"I feed her and water her in hope she will see the error of her deeds," answered Elias as he handed Kimi another glass of water.

"I think your time and resources are wasted, Elias," commented the Operative.

"Do not give up so easily, Anna," Elias pushed a plate of food forward, "an open mind is like an open palm, full of potential and able to grasp anything."

"Like a gun to shoot you," offered Kimi with a sickening smile to LaCroix.

"An open palm can also grasp a pen to write poetry, or a flute to temper the heart and soul with music," Elias was smiling and offering more water, "or another open palm in understanding."

"I'm sorry, Elias, I just do not see it," Anna wanted to spit on the servant in disgust, "things like art and music have no place in this world right now."

"Anna, you are so wrong. Now is when humanity needs art and music the most," Elias was gathering the plates and pitchers, "I always thought that was the reason GNR was so well protected."

"Possibly," agreed the Operative after a long pause, "maybe we do need music and poetry."

"If all could keep and open mind," began Elias, "than I doubt we'd have all these conflicts throughout our small corner of the wider world."

LaCroix thought to herself, _but we have more than one palm and hile we keep it open and full of potential the other is held back in secret_. _We, the Alexandria, are this other palm_, she realized.

Scribe Mendel was sitting in the living room with the LaCroix family. Dennis and Susan LaCroix had been more open to the community, their names being revered for fairness like that of Doctor Gordon Hopkins. People went out of their way on the street to greet them and occasionally ask for advice. Mister LaCroix had used this notoriety to start a news service in Grayditch.

His contacts within the Brotherhood, specifically Scribe Mendel, gave him leaks of information. So threatening was their popularity that many thought Susan LaCroix would have made a better choice for Mayor. Though she did decline the recommendation when it was first offered. Dennis saw the activity to the town as a welcomed form of progress. The only issue for him and the Grayditch Guardian, the title recommended by Susan, was the want of people for information and the limited supply he could produce through holotape typing and recycling.

He had asked for assistance from the Brotherhood, especially for the poor of the community who could not afford a holotape reader. Susan brought out a tray of herbal tea seeped in hot water with three tea cups. The herbs from Drayden had been coming more readily since access through the land between the Air Force Base and the Wasteland came under Brotherhood control. There was a calm silence as the tea seeped.

Susan began to pour a cup for Mendel, "Georgina, to what do we owe this visit?"

"Has the Brotherhood of Steel come up with a solution for my paper," asked Dennis.

"Oh, would you listen to him, going on about his paper," Susan smiled and lightly tapped the knee of Georgina Mandel, "to tell the truth, I love that Dennis has gotten a hobby."

"It's morethan a hobby dear," said Dennis LaCroix, "it's my job…my passh…"

Susan leaned forward and kissed her husband, "I'm your passion, dear."

"That you are," Dennis LaCroix agreed.

Mendel put her tea down after wetting her lips with the warm liquid, "the Brotherhood has been busy, Dennis. Jameson heads the Order of the Quills and she's taking point on the trial. She just got elected as the counsel for the defense."

"Can I quote you on that for the Guardian?" Asked Dennis.

"As an anonymous source, sure," agreed the Scribe, "but everything from said after this point in and the strictest of confidence."

Dennis and Susan had a concern look, "the last time we heard someone from the Brotherhood say something like that…"

Susan didn't finish as she pushed herself closer to Dennis, "we were attacked and almost died," said Dennis as he caressed his wife's shoulder.

"This doesn't involve leaving the safety of Grayditch," eased Mendel, "your name is on a short list for being a judge. You turned down the nomination for mayor, before we even knew what was occurring in this settlement, but when you are nominated to be a justice we ask you not to turn it down."

"Is the Brotherhood trying to stack…are asking me to lead to an unfair judgment," asked Susan.

"We aren't trying to use you," corrected Mendel, "we just want a fair trial and your support would be very popular."

"I'm not sure I like this," answered Mrs. LaCroix, "I can't give an answer right away, but my honor and integrity can not be purchased."

"And that is why we've been close friends," agreed Georgina Mendel.

Star Paladin Bael was sitting in Marshall Lawson's office. He was unable to lean back from the chair and put his feet up. The weight of his power armor would not allow him to without breaking the chair. Cristano oriented himself to look out of the open door. The Lawman of Grayditch walked in and threw his duster off on a coat rack.

Under his duster was a Dutton down white shirt with a short collar and thin arm bands just under the elbow of each arm. A thin black neck tie that was in a bow with a good five inches of extra fabric was tied around his throat. Marshall pulled one end of the bowtie to undo it while he unsnapped the top button of his shirt. Lawson pulled out his hooch and poured two glasses and downed his belt quickly as he refilled his glass. Bael took the other glass for himself and drank, rubbing his mouth with the back of armored hand afterwards.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of a drinking partner," Lawson asked as he put his boots up on his desk.

"Seems like you're had a tough day," Bael poured the next round for himself.

"You can say that," answered the Regulator.

"I hate all this formal political crap," said the Star Paladin as he talked conversations with hidden agendas, "that is not for men like you and I. Your name will be put on a list of nominations to be a trial judge. I want you to say yes."

"I should have you arrested for corruption and conspiracy," stated Lawson plainly.

"But you won't," answered Bael with a smile.

"Why do you think that, Star Paladin," questioned the Lawman.

"You may hide behind the demeanor of a legitimate law bringer to Grayditch," said Bael as he sat back down, "but you and I both know you're still a bounty hunter. Since caps and killing define your world, I'm going to offer the most wanted man in the wasteland to you for bounty."

"You know where Junders Plunkett is located, bullshit," said Lawson, "our best men have been after him, and they're either dead or injured."

"A Brotherhood scouting team found him," answered Bael as his smile grew, "and when we found out about the bounty on his head, I made certain he was put under house arrest. He is currently alive and well, what's his current worth now?"

"Five thousand caps," answered Lawson as he thought of the long and hard, "murdered a man and his wife in Canterbury Commons, the child survived though. How are you certain it is him?"

"The scouting team described him as a white man, good with small blades, with one eye," Bael described the fugitive, "his death would make everyone happy. You, Sonora, and hopefully my men could all be happy."

"And all you want is for me to agree to be a justice?" Lawson took out his signature smokes, "not asking for a complete acquittal are you?"

"You give the right verdict and sentence, all we want is a fair and balanced trial when it comes to the justices," answered the Star Paladin, "and when the trial is complete, you'll get Plunkett's finger."

Marshall Lawson didn't hesitate this time and stuck out his hand to make the deal with Cristano Bael.

Operative Hannah Newton was barely a few yards from the Citadel. Knight Michael Ban was still recovering and out of duty from field work. His current position was tactical assistance from Citadel Control with several Scribes in support. Joint Newton in the field were three Knights with years of experience, however it was clear that the Operative was the tactical lead for the mission. The Alexandria had become a mission of rumor amongst the local raiders and even the Brotherhood of Steel itself because of an unacknowledged agreement between the Operatives and the embellishment of those raiders to have survived. Star Paladin Bael fashioned his operations as burn and salt, though in practice there had been more leniency shown than rumored.

The Alexandria and BIOS, by default, were known for extreme operations more so in their after effect like the forty yard wide sinkhole near out of Friendship Heights. The other members of the Brotherhood treated the Operatives of BIOS, whom they saw rarely, as distantly as possible because of the mysterious nature of their work. The Knights were able to follow Newton's orders, a prospect that frightened and excited her at the same time, because of a mixture of regard, intrigue, and fear. They stood in front of the remains of a broken bridge that had a standing overhang that stood three stories tall and around fifty feet wide.

One of the Knights approached her, "ma'am, five tangos total carrying small arms and no high caliber rounds. Would be easy to 'November' them all."

Hannah sighed audible into her communications unit, something Ban was beginning to pick up on as a habit of hers when frustrated, "Newton, turn to channel six."

The Operative turned her comm unit over to the private line between her and Ban, "what seems to be the issue," he asked smiling into the microphone.

"I rather…dislike when they use the term 'November,'" she referred to the phonetic alphabet code that stood for neutralize.

"Netwon, you're just arguing semantics at this point," Ban was firm in his tone, "just do what needs to be done."

Hannah switched over to the mission channel and announced to the other Knights, "hold your men back," she ordered.

"Operative Newton, switch back to channel six," ordered Ban from Citadel Control.

"I'm going to try something different," she announced to the Knights and to Ban.

"Ma'am," questioned one of the Knights causing Newton to turn around.

"Stay your ground," she said as she resumed walking forward.

Ban was on the communication system right away, "you follow her, Knights, do you understand me?"

Hannah fired back through her communications unit, "Knights, stand your ground that is a direct order."

"What the hell do you think you're going to do, Hannah," said Ban into the comms, Newton decided to not respond.

She walked forward to the raiders, they did not attack immediately. Newton took this as a good sign and stopped thirty paces in front of them. She did not draw her weapon. The five raiders leveled their weapons at her, the most advanced piece of technology they had collectively was a bolt action rifle. The Operative did not hold her hands up, but low and clasped together in front of her.

"Let us come to an agreed upon solution," she said, her voice metallic through her power armor helmet.

"Then leave us be," yelled back on the raiders, "we ain't do nothing to you steel types!"

"I'm guessing you've heard about the Alexandria Arms," Newton let her new home add to the tension of the situation, "we, you, myself, and several Knights stationed around you, find ourselves in a very familiar situation. I would like to avoid that situation having already gone through it first hand. I'm going to offer you the chance to gather your belongings and leave in five hours. If any violence occurs within these three hours, than rest assured that the actions at the Alexandria will be revisited here and today."

The raiders asked for a few minutes to discuss amongst themselves before asking for Newton, "can we get twelve hours?"

Hannah thought quickly, "split the difference and you can have eight hours."

"We don't want to die over this shit hole," said another raider, "it's home, yea, but so too can be our next place."

"You have my word," said Newton before she got on the comms to tell her men to move up to secure the area as the raiders began to pack up.

"Operative Newton, switch over to channel six right now," ordered Ban as he waited for Newton to confirm the switch, "Do you know how reckless and stupid that was? That's rhetorical, don't answer."

"It worked," rejoined the red head, "look at the bright side, my way saved a lot of ammo."

"Ammo is nothing compared to your life, I swear you're acting like a green initiate right now," Ban was getting more pissed off now, "you never pull a stunt like that again, you hear me? I'm still your superior and that is an order."

"We'll see about next time," she said as the Knights were finally at her position, "Superior Ban, please let the Scribes know that they can start moving over to do some surveying."

"You're a real fire cracker," said Ban as he clicked off from the communication unit and informed the Scribes; he looked down to his pendant of Saint Jude and whispered quietly to himself, "thank you."

Knight Bors and Operative Quin Schieber were entering the small community of Big Town. They crossed a rickety bridge over a pool of irradiated water between a pike wall. There were two guards at the entrance, both had assault rifles but neither raised them as the two men in power armor approached. Behind the guards were military grade robots including a sentry bot, protectron, and mister gutsy.

"You're not raiders, slavers, or super mutants," stated one of the guards, "so what are you doing here?"

"We're from the Brotherhood of Steel," answered Bors through his power armor helmet, "several of our brothers are operating in the north and we've been asked to check in on the settlements like Big Town."

"The Brotherhood should know that Big Town is under the protection of the Family," said the other guard, there was an unsightly lump from his bottom lip.

"We're not here for a fight," said Schieber, "the protection of this settlement by the Family is good, the Brotherhood has been working to help secure the areas between settlements. And from outside forces like the Enclave."

"You'll be welcomed in Big Town as guests," answered the guard with a bulging lower lip.

There was some street activity but the population could not have exceeded over twenty permanent residents. As a frontier community, Big Town was under constant attack from slavers, raiders, super mutants and the elements. Failure of a community like Big Town was almost certain until the Lone Wanderer assisted in the return of the town doctor and reactivated the security robots. The caravans began to trade with town as it was a stop before Arefu. The relative close distance between Arefu and Big Town also benefited a small organization known as The Family. The Family appeared on the door step Big Town and offered a security deal for a donation of blood. More security, trade, and an ability to survive, how was Big Town able to refuse?

Bors asked from the guard where the town leader was, only there didn't seem to be anyone or a council to lead. The only person the guard told them that they should see upon recommendation was the local doctor. The walked to the place named Red's Clinic. As they entered, they saw a gurney cornered off to the side by a medical shade. The room led to a kitchen area where a woman in a red jumpsuit with a red bandana was boiling water. The knights walked into the room as she turned around to the heavy footfalls their power armor created.

"New in town," asked the doctor in comment to their power armor, "what can I do you for?"

"Just passing through, wanted to see what the town had to offer," said Bors as he removed his helmet, "Knight Jamie Bors."

"Knight Quin Schiber," introduced the Operative using a different rank than his actual rank.

"Red, local healer, or the closest thing to it," she introduced herself.

"The community seems pretty solid," commented Bors as he rubbed his beard trying to make small talk.

"We get by," answered the doctor with a smile, "we don't ask for much, we don't get much, that's for certain."

"What do you have, and what do the people here want," asked Schieber first thinking that there lacked a strong economy because it lacked agriculture or domesticated animals.

"We have each other, most of us have been together since Little Lamplight," answered Red, "we provide a good waypoint for those just kicked out of the caverns."

"Big Town could be so much more though," replied the Operative.

"We don't need it to be that, right now," modesty and ideas of grandeur were lost on the doctor.

"Any other people we should meet while in town?" Asked Knight Bors.

"I'm honored you thought I was important enough," Red's tone was flat, she didn't seem upset or ecstatic, "I can't really think of anyone with much to say worth saying."

"Do you know the direction to Arefu," asked Schieber as he took out his map.

"Keep left of the river and you'll get there before night fall," she said and pointed out an area on the map.

"Thank you, Red," said Bors as he put his helmet back on.

Bors and Schieber left Big Town and made their way to Arefu. This frontier town was different compared to Big Town because they did not need to import all their food. Brahmin and mirelurk were abundant sources of nutrition and well protected by the Family. The majority of the town lived up on the remains of a concrete overpass that was safely away from the creatures at ground level.

However, Arefu proved to be similar to that of Big Town. The leader of the town, Evan King, was not really comfortable with territorial expansion or population as he didn't want to risk the structural integrity of the overpass. Even though expansion was not in their interest, the people were welcoming to the Brotherhood of Steel. Arefu seemed to be the perfect spot to launch operations into the northern region and the Operatives would have to relay their intelligence to Scribe Yearling. The northern frontier was being explored by Sentinel Tristan's Centurians, who were holding a train tunnel as a base. The Operatives followed the land bridge that marked the end of the Potomac and the many small lakes it gave birth too.

The night had fallen as they crossed the rocky and sand filled wasteland. They were walking in silence in total darkness. The moon was new and reflected no light. The little light that was available came from the stars. The ambient sounds of the wasteland were limited to their footfalls, the wind sweeping against the sand and rocks with the occasional cry of an animal in the distance. There were some structures in the distance and Schieber asked Trip to do a thermal scan.

Schieber and Bors cleared out the radroach nest and made camp. Trip was keptas the guard all night. Before the sun of a new day broke through the heavens, the Alexandria Operatives were back on their feet making their way farther north. The sun had found a prominent place in the sky before their silence was broken.

"There are several unidentified objects closing in on your position," said Trip in its light female voice.

"Not like any other programmed combatants," asked Bors.

"Negative, the radiation level exceeds five times the amount of feral ghouls," replied the machine to give a scale estimate, "objects are nearly comparable in size and structure."

Schieber and Bors looked at each other and started to move forward, "how many and announce distance, Trip," ordered Schieber as he and Bors began to pick up pace.

They kept moving north running as fast as their armor would allow, "thirty units that are a hundred yards and closing the distance."

"Thirty, how can there be thirty?" Questioned Knight Bors as the Operatives kept on running to the north.

"I think I see some ruins a head," called out Schieber.

"Ruin is twenty yards ahead," replied the robot, "hostile units are seventy yards and closing the distance."

"How the hell can they close in that fast," asked Schieber to no one in particular.

"You have reached the ruins," replied Trip a few minutes later, "hostile unites are fifty yards out and closing distance."

Knight Bors turned on his head lamp and quickly searched the ruins in first glance to luckily find a service entrance door; he kicked it with all his and the suit's strength but it didn't budge, "Trip, get that door open, now!"

The robot used its precision laser to cut through the lock, "twenty yards and closing distance."

The door opened as the robot and Operatives went inside the dark service tunnel, "seal the entrance, Trip."

The flamethrower was concentrated to melt the metal of the door to its frame. Schieber turned on his head lamp like Bors to see the tunnel they had entered. Quin sighed as he thought to himself, _more sewers_. Trip was almost done sealing the door when the pounding began against the metal door. Along with the pounding noise, scratches could be heard like nails on the metal.

"What the fuck were those," asked Schieber as he looked to Bors.

The pounding on the door continued to the annoyance of Bros, "shut up, will yah," he yelled at the door, "I dunno kid, lets see where the hell we are first."

"I'm getting really sick of these underground tunnels," commented Schieber as they waited for Trip to finish sealing the door and ordered the robot to take point.

The tunnel led downward, water still collecting in it just as it had two hundred years earlier. Trip led the way in front of the Operatives, in stealth mode the beams of light occasionally showed the distortion of the robot. The water was calf high and made a sloshing noise as the Operatives moved forward. The twin beams of light from their head lamps bobbed up and down as Schieber and Bors moved forward.

Trip reported into Bors and Schieber, "two humans, no advanced armor, small arms at sixty yards out."

Turning to each other, the Operatives made certain their weapons were at the ready. They proceeded in a split formation taking equal strides down the tunnel with Trip leading the way. Trip warned that their head lamps would be noticeable at twenty-five yards. The Operatives kept the robot to the front to act as a bullet sponge.

There was a bright light at the end of the tunnel and it began to become larger the close Knight Bors and Operative Schieber got farther down the tunnel. The outline of the two men in the bright light showed their position to as sitting down and not at the ready. As the Operatives moved closer, the noise from the armor boots sloshing in the water alerted the guards to their presence. A large spot light was turned on and shown down the tunnel to illuminate the two members from the Brotherhood of Steel. Any idea of a surprise attack was gone.

"You lost, Brotherhood," asked a guard in some mercenary armor.

"Must be if they is using the sewer tunnels," answered the other guard with similar armor on.

"Shut it, Trapper," snarled the first guard, "and you lot, hand over those pretty laser rifles."

"Like hell we will," answered Bors as he made his barrel align with the raider's chest about to give an order to Trip.

"You have no room to discuss this," the guard flipped a switch and two mark three turrets appeared from them hatches in the ceiling.

Schieber made certain his internal communication unit was on but not his helmet speaker, "Trip, why didn't you tell us about the turrets?"

"Operative Schieber," the robot responded through its internal comm. unit, "the switch activated the power source for the turrets; they were not activated and not detectable."

"Remain in stealth mode and untraceable, Trip," ordered Schieber as he looked to Bors.

The Knight sighed and lowered his laser rifle knowing they were in a bad situation, "just where the hell are we?"

"Welcome to Paradise Falls, steel heads," the guard said as the other raider, Trapper, collected the laser rifles from the Operatives, "we hope you'll enjoy your stay."

The guards smiled sinisterly showing their black rotten teeth, Trapper pulled the laser rifle from Schieber's hands with force. Despite wearing some of the most advanced armor in the world, Quin felt incredibly naked. There would be only two outcomes from being at Paradise Falls: bad and worse. He hung his head as he followed the guards, who pointed his own weapon at him, his only thoughts were now of his family back in Drayden. _If only they could see where I ended up_, he thought cynically in his head, _how ironic for a Schieber to end up at Paradise Falls_.

A/N: I would like to apologize for how long it took me to write this chapter. I hope this has not dissuaded anyone from reading, but I will try to get back on schedule with quick chapter updates. Thank you once again for reading. I hope you will take the time to review. This chapter has not been beta-read.


	5. Dark Secrets of Men

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 5.) Dark Secrets of Men

Defender Wilderman, the undercover Operative Artemis, rejoined the Outcast unit he had been assigned to for escort of a local that had impressed Protector Casdin. The other Defenders, Anne Marie Morgan and Rococo Rockfowl, were talking to each other when he returned. Harkness was lying on the bed, awake but pretending to be unconscious to not raise suspicion and gather information on what the technological zealots would do with him. Morgan and Rockfowl turned to Wilderman when he returned.

"Took your time," replied Anne Marie as she removed her helmet and wiped the sweat from her dark black skin.

"Wanted to find out if they were truly Brotherhood or not," answered Arthur Wilderman as he sat down on a chair next to the Raider girl that was hooked up to a intravenous bag of detox.

There was along pause before Morgan nudged Wilderman, "well, Arthur, were those boys Brotherhood?"

Wilderman shook his head as he kept thinking about the conversation he had with J.R. and Zach Zimm, "yea, seems Lyons' has recruited locals."

"What rank were they," asked Rockfowl with a scowl on his face, his helmet was off as well.

"They were Apprentices," answered Wilderman as used a lesser rank from the West Coast system, "how long did the doctor say we'd be here for?"

"Haven't had words with him yet," said Morgan as she crossed her arms, "but we're going to have to talk with the doctor and engineer eventually. We need to know who the fuck this…this…what ever he is."

"Anne Marie, he saved your life," Rockfowl looked at the wounded and bandaged Harkness on the gurney; the android's shirt and armor had been removed by the doctor and engineer for bandaging, "I say we give him the benefit of the doubt."

"You're always too soft, Rococo," snapped Morgan before she turned back to Wilderman, "go find the quack and the tinkerer."

"Aye, ma'am," said Wilderman as he stood up and walked to the private office of Doc Church.

Hunched over a piece of paper that detailed circuitry and mechanical parts, Walter the engineer and Doc Church looked up, "what do you want, now?"

"My squad would like to know how long we have to hold up here," asked Wilderman as he still wore his painted red Enclave power armor with the Outcast logo.

"You can leave anytime you want," said Church as he began to roll up the blue prints in front of him.

"Let me clarify, how long will it take for the patient to be able to be moved," rephrased Arthur as he opened up a compartment of his power armor.

"If you brutes took him now I couldn't guarantee his livelihood, I still want to run tests," answered the Doc Church.

"I'd like to um…examine him closer too," injected the engineer.

"It sounds like you'll need a week for all this to get done," answered Wilderman as he closed the compartment and left his cap pouch inside.

"I could be done in three days," answered Walter as he tried to placate the stronger man.

"I'd prefer if you two took a week," enforced Defender Wilderman.

The embedded Knight walked back to the Outcast squad and nodded to acknowledge that he had found them. He sat back in his chair and removed his helmet. Artemis pulled off his recon helmet and let his brown hair hang limply to his wet face. The past two years as a secret agent had been underwhelming, observe and report. Artemis occasionally had to bypass security protocols to obtain secret information, but would mask his terminal tracking with a long dead member of the Outcasts that led to a dead end. This small operation could mean his cover would be blown and the last two years would be for nothing.

"Wilderman, where's your head," asked Morgan.

"Sorry, ma'am, they'll be here any moment," answered Wilderman as he bit his bottom lip.

"Something's on your mind," observed Defender Anne Marie Morgan.

"It's nothing…just," Wilderman shook his head, "those members from the Brotherhood told me some news about Elder Lyons."

"What about the pretender?" Asked Morgan as Rockfowl scowled at her from behind.

"He's fallen ill," answered the spy, "and the Brotherhood has passed hands to Rothchild for the time."

Morgan and Rockfowl both looked in shock as they shared similar thoughts, _Protector Casdin needs to know_. John Harkness, from the gurney, barely opened his eyes to take in the sight of Defender Wilderman. The androids thoughts turned to what would happen with him, and how best he'd be able to protect himself for the upcoming future.

Operatives J.R. and Zachary Zimm were back in Springvale in the warden's office with Daniel Roe. The two Operatives had to pull him away from the black jack table to get him to an emergency meeting with Ashkelon. Roe had dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise looked to be in good health, Zimm had gotten the remainder of cut stitched along with a new bandage. Doc Church had ripped the Operative a new one for drinking alcohol with an open wound and finished the job without any pain killers. Of the three Operatives, J.R. seemed to be the only one that did not look like he needed sleep and a warm meal.

Ashkelon walked in and sat behind his desk as he underlings passed him some paper files that he threw on the counter and asked to guard the door, "what the hell is it with you, three," commented on how poorly they appeared.

"It's been a rough day or two," replied J.R. as Roe rubbed his eyes.

"Did Crowley take the deal?" Ashkelon didn't waste time.

Roe nodded, "he took the deal of twenty percent of house earnings going to you, but he rather keeps using his guards."

"No skin off my back," replied the prison warden.

Roe yawned before he said, "I know it'll be a big blow to Moriarty for this to occur and with the Tenpenny visit; but I don't trust Crowley to remain loyal."

"The shuffler doesn't need to remain loyal to me, just not loyal to Moriarty," rejoined Ashkelon.

"We've hit a hiccough that we need some help with," butted in J.R.

"I pay you lot enough to figure it out on your own," said Ashkelon, "what is this little hiccough?"

"We need to…capture an individual from Doc's Clinic in Megaton," answered Roe as he nodded to J.R., "we got word that a man our…group…has been interested in is recovering in the clinic."

"So, what's the problem?" Asked the warden as he looked at the three of them, "can't you capture one man on your own?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," J.R. said as he motioned to Zimm who refused to talk and rip his stitches, "Da did that to Zimm when he caught us in town. He knows our faces really well. Then there is the small problem of the Outcasts are guarding him cause they brought him in."

"Wanted by you and the Outcasts," thought the warden, "hmmm, sounds way too risky for me to get involved."

"We need the man power," demanded J.R., "these are highly trained soldiers in a hostile town. We need to pick up the package and get out. Not to mention, the chaos that would result if the guards looked like Moriarty's own men!"

Ashkelon sighed before he said, "I can't risk the involvement or man power. I hope you understand?"

"You want to limit Moriarty's power and then don't commit to a course of action," complained Roe as he stood up.

Ashkelon swiped the files off his desk and stared the Operatives down, "you work for me! FOR ME! Don't forget that! I have limited man power and frankly, this would lead to a war I can't win! Excuse me if I want to secure my ass."

Roe sat down without saying anything, "god job," whispered J.R. from the corner of his mouth.

"If that's all, please leave," ordered Ashkelon as he picked up his files and flipped through them to put them in order.

The Operatives met outside of the prison before a word was said, "what were you thinking, Roe?"

"Get off my back, Moriarty," replied Roe as he pushed J.R. away.

J.R. raised his fist about to punch Roe in the face when Zimm held them apart, "Cahn weee not doo thess hair," commented Zach with tremendous pain.

"Yea," said J.R. as he stared down Roe, "you need help, you look like shit. When did you last sleep?"

"Three shift changes ago," answered Dan as he referred to the small town casino.

"You have a problem," commented J.R.

"Actually, I think I have a solution," replied Daniel Roe as he walked to Crowley's Games and Cards.

"I hope it's not to spend three days playing cards," commented J.R. as Zimm followed them.

Scribe Actaeon and Samuel Warrick were walking through a carved out rock entrance that had train tracks laid into the ground. Warrick walked ahead of Actaeon and informed the Brotherhood Scribe on where to step to avoid mines and booby-traps. Actaeon had only heard of Evergreen Mills as a marker on the map, no scouting party had ever returned from the area. As they passed a sniper nest and overhead bridge, the scribe now saw why the scouting parties had issues with returning. He shifted the dead weight on his back which used to be a living person named Prime, the stench made him cough a little.

"Welcome tah the Mills, hood," said Warrick as he brushed his hair back with his greasy sweat, the journey had taken them a little over a day.

The small valley had a large foundry built into it with a series of ramps and cages erected along with the natural protection from old boxcars and the rock walls, "what the…"

The scribe was interrupted by a large roar from a high walled caged with nuclear generator attached, "dun mind him, he gits a bit 'ornery."

"Is that…is that a… a behemoth?" Actaeon turned to Warrick his face still obscured by the hood, but his eyes were wide.

"We need tah git in the foundry," said Warrick as he turned the scribe away from the behemoth in an electric cage.

"There is a Super Mutant Behemoth in the front yard," seethed the Scribe, "who's great fucking idea was that one?"

"Look, boy, I just want to git meh caps for that body you're hoisting," Warrick was walking through the front entrance of the foundry.

Actaeon was amazed, settled in this man made valley was a large thriving community of raiders. Lining the entrance to the foundry were erected stalls with cloth or canvass awnings to protect from the sun or the occasional rain. The foundry entrance was a light brown color and red rust, with the stalls bringing the only modicum of color that isn't from the apocalypse palette. Raiders, the vultures that prayed on the fringes of modern settlements, were not small bands of individuals but members of a larger community. Evergreen Mills was a raider city.

The Scribe and Bounty Hunter entered the foundry and walked up the scaffold and ramps to an office on the left side. Samuel Warrick knocked on the door frame and was called in. He walked through the doorway and greeted a man that wore a leather vest on his bare tan skin along with long leather pants. The man's hair looked like it had never been washed, instead he seemed to have twirled multiple stands together to look like cords that he kept tied back. His hand were large and wide, nearly the size of a man's whole head.

"Put that little fucker on the table," ordered the man in the leather vest.

Actaeon walked over to the desk and unstrapped the rotting body from his back and laid it out on the table, "there."

Warrick pulled him back to the corner of the room, "as per our agreement, Foreman."

"I wanted his head," said the leader of Evergreen Mills.

"He dun took it off himself," said the Bounty Hunter as he laid Prime's weapon on his headless body.

Foreman rolled the sleeves up on body and looked at the wounds on the forearm and the tattoos, "when I want something done, I want it done a certain way, Sam."

"Like I sed, Prime dun took 'is own 'ead off," replied Warrick as crossed his arms, "do yeh not trust he's who I say he is?"

"I trust you, Sam," said the Foreman as he took the modified assault rifle from the body and cocked the hammer back, "just don't trust that faceless guy with you. Might've been Prime in disguise or even Jiggs for all I knew. What is he doing here?"

Actaeon stayed silent as Warrick did the talking for him, "he doesn't matter, just a favor I owe someone."

"I don't like changes in the system, you know that, Sam," said Foreman as he put the rifle on his back, he pressed a button on his desk and three men entered the room, "strip that and feed it to Benny."

"I see you've named the…captive," said Warrick as the three men grabbed the body and dragged it out of the room.

"Benny the Behemoth, had a playful ring to it," admitted the Foreman as he pulled out a pouch of caps for Warrick, "the kids have developed a game with him, see who can get closest to the cage to prove their bravery."

Warrick grabbed the pouch and opened it in front of Foreman to count it, "the chil'un need tah watch out o' they'll loose an ahrm…what the fuck is this? Yuh two hun'red short…"

"I don't like surprises or my orders not being followed to the letter of the bounty," said the Foreman as he continued to lean on his desk, "that'll be all, Sam. Thank you by the way."

Warrick pushed Actaeon from the corner of the room and through the doorway; he turned back to the Foreman and tipped his sunglasses down, "give Larissa my regards."

The Bounty Hunter and Scribe walked out of the foundry and into the open air market at the entrance. There was a strict silence between them, Actaeon knowing that some how his presence caused issues. Sam Warrick stopped at one of the stalls and tossed a cap to person behind the counter. He picked up wrinkled skinned fruit from an open tray of them, sniffed it before he nodded to the store keeper and bit in. The juice squirted a little onto the skin around his mouth as an audible crunch could be heard to those five feet around him.

"Samuel Warrick, second best bounty hunter in the Capital Wasteland," drawled a man from behind Actaeon.

Warrick and Actaeon turned to see a man with a bandana wrapped on his head, wearing leather armor and a strange rifle strapped to his back, "Laszlo Radford, tah best liar, cheater, swindler, an' all around crook o' the Capital Wasteland."

The man's face soured as he pushed forward, "I think you're going senile, old man. Seems you even recruited an errand boy as well. Or is it a holster for…gun," Laszlo flashed his eyebrows to stress the innuendo he used.

Actaeon remained silent, he did not feel at ease being a member of the Brotherhood of Steel in an area controlled by raiders; Warrick on the other hand lived in that community day-in and day-out, "Mistah Radford, I'm shocked and a'palled that you'd think I'd be a hee'than sodomite as yourself is so inclined. Howev'ah, on the topic of work, I hear Littlehorn and his Associates have given most o' their contracts tah Talon Company."

Laszlo Radford began to walk away, saying behind his back, "it's a wide open wasteland, Samuel, and you only have two sets of eyes now, old man."

As Laszlo walked away Warrick slammed a pouch of caps to Actaeon's chest, "get some gear and meat at the valley entrance."

"I'm sorry, get some gear," asked the scribe, speaking for the first time since entering the open market to the foundry.

"Yea, hood, gear. Git some canteens, some ammo, some dry rations," Sam rubbed his greasy hair back again as he wet his chapped lips, "then we leave."

"To go where?" The scribe could see that Warrick, usually collect and warm seemed a little more fidgety bothered.

"The only other place w'ere people like I are welcomed, hood," answered Warrick as he patted the scribe on the shoulder, "Megaton, city of scoundrels."

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were at the overpass that was being fitted with security towers on the north side, south side, and west side looking over the bridge to Project Purity. Ban wasn't wearing his power armor because the weight would have been too much for his recovering leg to maintain balance. The medical robot didn't recommend him to walk, but he wanted to see the location with his own eyes. Newton was wearing her power armor and conversing with Ban about the defense plans drafted by Scribe Bowditch. There was a crackle on her communication unit.

"Operatives Newton and Ban, report to Citadel Control immediately," said one of the scribes manning the communication array.

"Citadel Control, please advise on the recall," asked Newton into her power armor helmet, "we're to report back to the Bailey at twenty-three hundred."

"This is a directive from acting Elder Rothchild," answered the scribe.

"Understood, back in ten," replied Hannah as she turned to Michael, "we need to be back to C.C. in ten, Elder Rothchild has asked for us."

"_Acting Elder_," corrected Ban as he hefted his leg and leaned heavily on a set of crutches, "I'm not going to get used to that, it's as if they've given up."

"Do you think you'll be able to manage," questioned Newton, the power armor helmet didn't show it, but Ban knew she was looking at his leg.

"I'll be fine, just wish Bowditch didn't have to put so many steps on this thing," Ban referred to the staircase leading to the top level of the overpass.

A few minutes later, the Operatives were walking into the Citadel and heading up the staircase to Citadel Control. Hannah would hang back and wait for Ban to catch up as going up stairs was slow on crutches. At the top of the steps, Michael needed to catch his breath. They opened the double doors and entered the communication nexus of the Brotherhood of Steel to see Yearling in a heated debate with Rothchild.

"With all do respect, _Elder_, but giving them a free pass is not secure," Yearling had her arms crossed in front of her chest, clipboard rattling in her hands.

"Frankly, your lack of trust is concerning," Rothchild held a strong upper lip to his subordinate.

"Your trust in outsiders has turned to blindness," commented the logistical head of BIOS, "not everyone is the Lone Wanderer."

"Do not begin to lecture me," the acting Elder slammed his fist on the counter.

"Are we interrupting," asked Ban with a pained smiled on his face while he leaned on the crutches.

"I need your assistance," answered Rothchild, "your specific research can assist an important decision."

"Please convince him that allowing those outsiders in would allow them to gain a beach head here," Yearling frowned.

"Well, if we knew what was occurring that might help us out," said Newton through her helmet.

"It the _Justice_ still on the line?" Reginald Rothchild turned to the scribe on the closest control.

"Yes, acting Elder," replied the Scribe as he turned away from his station and handed it over to the four others.

Rothchild took the mike and initiated communication with the Commonwealth ship, "Officer Bell, I have with me Knights Newton and Ban, please relay the information you transmitted before."

"Communications Officer Bell, what is your situation?" Asked Ban into the mike as he sat down gingerly, "Knight Newton is listening in as well, over."

"Sir Ban and Lady Newton, I wish there was a more pleasant reason for this conversation," Bell sounded tired, even over the radio waves, "Rear Admiral Nelson has requested that we ship the majority of the high ranking civilians with a small security detachment to dock immediately. There are some…disturbances that have been documented from our vessels and are very…disconcerting, over."

"What type of disturbances, over," asked Newton for clarification.

"I'm not certain if I can release that information, Lady Newton, over." Bell's voice cracked at the end of his statement.

"For us to even consider a yes, we'll need to know what you are dealing with," answered Ban as he then put his hand over to mike even though the button wasn't depressed, "we need to know more before we can do anything."

"We can't let them stay afloat if there is danger," answered Newton, her helmet off and a frown plastered to her face.

"One second, Sir Ban, I need to gain confirmation from my Commanding Officer," replied Bell through the mike before he returned, "Rear Admiral Nelson has allowed me to confer that there is a sizeable energy signature in the area."

"Bell, are you saying there is a large energy signature from land? Over," Ban wanted clarification.

"On the record, I am not at liberty to say," answered Bell after a long pause, "however, this may cost me a demotion or court martial, but it is located on the open water in a holding position, over."

"Bell, we appreciate breaking protocol to give us a more detailed idea of your situation," Ban turned to Newton, "give us a few minutes so that we can confer on the proper course of action, over."

"I only broke procedure so that our civilians can get to safety," answered Bell through the communications array, "we'll await your reply, over."

Ban turned his chair around with Newton to look at their head of intelligence and acting head of the Brotherhood, "it'll be a bunch of civies and one security team."

"If you can trust their word," answered Yearling.

"Bell sounded scared and nervous, I'm more concerned for this "sizeable energy signature" that is out there," sighed Newton a little fear in her eyes, "please tell me you three are thinking what I am."

"A return of the Enclave would be improbable," answered Rothchild with a half chuckle, "they're virtual whipped out after Eden, Autumn, and Adams Air Force Base were destroyed or taken under our control."

"I don't want to discredit any options," defended Yearling.

Rothchild nodded before he said, "what options are being presented."

"I've made my idea more than vocal," snorted Yearling.

"Complete access seems too drastic," admitted Ban.

"Perhaps we can meet them half-way," offered Newton as she looked between them, "allow them entrance but deny them the right to carry weapons other than personal armaments."

"These people have tech that far exceed our expectations," Yearling said as she wet her lips, "but if I'm the only one looking to protect the Capitol, I understand."

"Yearling, Ban, and Newton, I'm expecting close watch and security in this," ordered Rothchild, "make certain the…Embassies are secured as well, with our own people."

Yearling stormed off with her orders as Ban and Newton turned to the mike, "Comm Officer Bell, you have been given permission to send your civilians over. The only condition is that only personal defense armaments can be brought on land. Can you meet this accommodation, over?"

"Affirmative, we'll begin rounding our civilian personal and a twenty man security team on our frigate, the _BCSS Law and Order_, will radio their departure and approach time," replied Bell through the mike, "over."

"Acknowledged," answered Ban as he turned to Newton, "I guess they'll be here a bit sooner than we planned."

Scribe Jameson was sitting at a table with the two members from the Brotherhood of Steel and third unnamed prisoner. She was going over statements and the indictments as they stood thus far. Juan Alvarado was facing one account of breaking and entering, while his partner Lolli Pop was facing the same charge and attempted murder. The unnamed prisoner was facing an indictment of murder. Pop and Alvarado were more than happy to discuss the matters, the other was taciturn as usual.

"You do realize you're facing the possibility of death by firing squad, right," asked Jameson as she wrote down her notes, "this would be a lot easier if you talked."

The prisoner just nodded, "we think he's on strike, Scribe Jameson, ever since you became his legal counsel his refused to talk," commented Alvarado.

"Thank you, rest assured, I will defend each of you equally," answered the Scribe as she looked into each of their eyes.

"Can you defend us more than him, please," asked Lolli which caused Jameson to smile at the corner of her mouth.

"How is your arm, Alvarado," she asked to the still injured Operative, "has Doctor Hopkins given any word about it?"

"Same problems as before," the Hispanic Operative smiled to the mature woman, "the sling has been helpful."

"I'll talk with Hopkins, see if there is anymore that can be done," replied the Jameson as the door opened and in walked Scribe Mendel, "yes, what is it?"

Mendel leaned down and whispered into Jameson's ear, "we have an informant in the saloon that needs your direct attention right now."

"Understood," Jameson stood up and wrung a bell that was in front of her on the table; four Knights walked in to escort the prisoners back to the cell, "I'm sorry to cut this short, but there is some business I need to attend too."

The Operatives thanked the Scribe as the Knights escorted them back to the cell. Jameson passed her folder to Mendel and walked out with her. The made their way to the saloon where Star Paladin Bael was sitting with an unruly man and kept passing a tankard of rot gut to him.

Jameson grabbed Mendel's elbow, "a drunkard is our informant, and how will any of this hold up on the trial?"

"It's not meant too be for court," answered Mendel as she put the files on the table.

"Why am I here, Cristano," asked Jameson as she stood at the table where Bael kept feeding the man alcohol, "you can go now, Mendel."

The Scribe cursed under her breath as she left the saloon, "Jameson, meet Chuck, he's got an interesting story."

"I'm sure he does," agreed Jameson with a frown, "the question is why am I here for it?"

"You're friend is a bitch," answered the drunk man named Chuck.

Cristano Bael laughed heartily and slapped Chuck on the back, "Chuck, good sir, tell my friend your story."

"I dun think she'd like my story," answered Chuck with a bit of a slur as he drank some more, "though I do have something else she might like…heh…heh…heh."

"I'm leaving," announced Jameson, not wanting to put up with any conversations with Chuck.

"I dun think she likes me," said Chuck.

"Just tell your story, buddy," answered Bael as he motioned for Jameson to sit.

"Well, it started when I got arrested here for a small infraction," began the drunkard.

"A criminal, great," commented Jameson as she sat down, "how much more am I expected to listen too?"

"Get to the good parts, Chuck," ordered Bael.

"But the good part of the story is telling it, Crist…Cristano," Bael pulled the cup away and Chuck grabbed it quickly, "okay, okay, fine; destroy my creative side. So I'm getting booked and warned and I see someone in the cell, one of those three blokes that this trial is getting talked up about. He was my commanding officer from Talon Company, before I…deserted at Takoma Industrial when it was first lost seven years back."

"Takoma Industrial?" Questioned Jameson as she had opened her notes.

"Yes, it was a large base for the Talons back in the day," answered Chuck, "but it was lost to the arrogance and cowardice of one man, the commanding officer, Galvin Cobb. That's the man in the cell, the Fool of Takoma, Galvin Cobb."

"What exactly did…Mr. Cobb do, to get such a name," asked Jameson.

Chuck sat back a little and sucked the air in before he began to recite some lines in a sing song voice, "Aye, this is the tale of Galvin Cobb, whose actions make Jabsco sob. Commander of Takoma Park and saw it all lost in a lark. Surrounded by mutants tall and green, decided to attack in the open and seen; O'ny to have his men afoul'ed as the super mutants screamed and growled. Artillery went off on the grounds, but nigh a man could hear those sounds. For the retreating footsteps of Galin Cobb were heard well over the din of the encroaching mob."

The bar slowly clapped and whistled to the little drinking shanty that Chuck had sang, someone from the crowded shouted, "sing Danny Boy!"

"The name's Chuck," replied the drunk Talon deserter, "but I got your ticket. Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountain side!"

"And like that we lost him," Star Paladin Bael said as Chuck began singing to the rest of the crowd.

"So am I to believe that the man in the holding cell is this Galvin Cobb," Jameson was pursing her lips in disbelief, "on the word from one drunken tune carrier?"

"Listen, this is the closest lead we have on this guy," answered the Star Paladin.

"I'm not going to go off some saloon shanty!" Retorted Jameson.

"Look, you deal with the litigation," answered Bael, "I don't, I deal with getting information and planning for contingencies. Now I have some back up plans in order, but you still need to try and win this trial."

"I know I do, but do you think I'll really give a fair representation to this murderer," asked the Scribe as she dropped her egalitarian manner.

"You will, because you said you will," replied Bael as he licked his lips, "however, if we can use this Talon Company angle, I'd love too."

"You just want own of your men to infiltrate them," said Jameson pointedly.

"Damn straight, imagine if Talon could be turned to work with us instead of for themselves," pointed out Bael, "don't deny it would be great for the Brotherhood of Steel to have population of and man power of Talon. Rot that greed and cruelty from the inside before it's taken over."

"You think too far down the line and not in the immediate issues that face this order," stated Scribe Jameson as she got up to leave.

Chuck began the closing lines of the tune he was singing, "For ye will bend and tell me that you love me. And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me! Thank you, thank you, you're too kind, someone buy me a drink to wet my whistle. You'll love my shanty about a man from Nantucket; especially the ladies will love it!"

Operative Quin Schiber and Kinght Jamie Bors were squatting on their helmets in a holding cell. They stared straight ahead between the chain link fence to the men and women wearing the collars used by slavers that had semtex explosive to remove their head from their body if they were to escape. They did not talk with the slaves, nor did they talk with each other. They sat in silence, as the brahmin pack mooed softly. One dark thought continued to race throughout his gray matter.

Slavers approached and opened their cell, "get up, Eulogy wants a meeting."

"I demand our release," said Bors as he stood up, "the Brotherhood of Steel will not stand for this."

"You are not to talk in front of Mr. Jones," answered the slaver, "only the one from the Schieber Clan can talk with Eulogy."

The were forced to walk in front of the slaver till they got to a pit that had a large iron grate over it and a burning fire with a spinning brahmin carcass. Eulogy Jones was sitting in a chair that was lifted slightly higher than all the other chairs. Likewise, it was the only chair around the pit with a tall back that allowed him to relax. The slave named Frank was cutting off ribs and pieces and passing out plates.

"Which of the Schieber Clan are you," asked Eulogy Jones from his sitting position as one of his female bodyguards whipped the corner of his mouth.

"Quintus, son of Athena," answered Schieber as Bors looked at him with squinting eyes.

"Your brothers, Primus and Segundas have contacted me about my stock for you younger brother Septimius," informed Eulogy Jones before he turned to Knight Bors, "surprised to hear that a fellow Knight of ours has been to my markets before?"

"Very much so," said Jamie Bors with a frown, "had we known, he probably would not have been accepted into the Brotherhood."

"Have you taken one of my own for yourself yet, Quintus," asked Eulogy Jones, Schieber just shook his head, "do you disapprove of what your father did or how your family is run?"

"I can't say much as to how Primus runs the family currently," answered Quin as he held his hand to his side still, "though I understand why my father made his decision and where my mother came from."

"I can not," answered Bors, flatly.

"Perhaps you should have an open mind for your…_brother_…just as you should have an open mind with me, Knight," Jones kept a calm tone as he turned back to Schieber, "if you are not here for your family, please explain why you are before me."

"We were attacked and broke a door open to escape, that is when we stumbled upon your service entrance," informed Quin with a nod, "no disrespect was meant, Mr. Jones."

"See, this is how a true gentleman behaves," answered Eulogy with a wide smile as he stood up, "you are a credit to your clan and the fine gentlemen of Drayden, however few of them remain."

"The Schiebers have always been gentlemen," affirmed the Operative.

Eulogy's smile faltered, "you have not talked with Primus in a while, I take it."

"No, not since I left and joined the Brotherhood," agreed Schieber, "I only found out in my second week that father had died and Primus had taken over."

"Primus certainly has changed your clan, young Schieber," answered the slaver master as he began to walk around the pit, "though it is not my place to say."

"News from my family is seldom and infrequent, if you have information for me, please impart it," said Quin nervously.

"How can you two talk this way with each other," demanded Bors as he stared at his fellow armor clad colleague, "you come from a slaver family, a SLAVER FAMILY!"

"We will discuss this later," stated the Operative firmly.

Bors shut his mouth as Jones continued, "you're brother has taken a second wife, Helena."

Schieber's brow furrowed, "I see that gives even more of a reason for me and my companion to leave."

"What is your mission here, Schieber," asked Eulogy Jones bluntly.

"The Brotherhood does not look favorable upon revealing mission specifics," answered Quin with a smile, "though I can assure you, we do not plan to directly get in the way of your operations."

"If only the rest of your compatriots felt the same way, and treated us with such respect," said Eulogy, "make sure that you do not interfere with me or my associates."

"Understood, Mr. Jones," answered Schieber with a curt nod, "when may we receive our weapons and be on our way?"

"Grouse will give them to you at the entrance, straight ahead around the curve," answered Eulogy as he turned his back and took some more of the brahmin.

"Thank you," said Operative Quintus Schieber as he beckoned Knight Jamie Bors and they walked out of the fort to the entrance where Grouse stood with their laser rifles.

They walked a half a mile from the entrance before Bors laid into him, "care to explain what the fuck was that? Why you were all buddy buddy with Eulogy Fucking Jones?"

"No, I don't wish to explain," answered Quin, his brow still furrowed under his helmet, "but I doubt you'll let me get off saying that."

"Trip, drop stealth and aim plasma charge at Operative Schieber," ordered Knight Bors.

The robot dropped its stealth cloak, "this platform can not perform the second order based on program parameters. This platform can not threaten to harm or harm a member of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Trip, keep look out," ordered Schieber, "Knight Bors, I hope you take what I am about to say with a grain of salt."

"Slavery with a grain of salt, that's a good one," said Jamie with a snarky attitude.

"Drayden, for the agricultural wonder it has been for the Capitol, unfortunately did not have the greatest genetic diversity," explained Quin, "my brother, Primus, was begat by a union between my father and his cousin, whom died in child birth. My father saw the issue that was causing the community and the family, specifically the low numbers left of the Schieber Clan, to struggle economically and genetic viability. He made a trip to the Capitol to find labor, and returned with the purchase of five slaves. One of which, Terra, became his second wife and begat my brother Segundas and my sister Trecies before the fever killed her. He returned to Eulogy and fell in love one of the slaves at first sight, Juno, who begat my second sister Quatrinia. Juno died in child birth.

"It took him a few years to recover until dad returned to Paradise Falls," continued Schieber as he chose his words, "he purchased a slave woman named Athena, who became his fourth wife and begat me, my twin brothers Sexton and Septimius, and our young sister Octavia. The multiple pregnancies left my mother weak and so my father purchased assistants for the compound. One of them was Helena, who replaced my mother after she died, and begat Neurosos. When I left for the Brotherhood of Steel, my father passed and the leadership went to Primus, who is in his late forties now. Primus had followed my father's footsteps years before to marry a slave, to be followed by Segundas, and Sexton."

"So your family purchases slaves, and then turns them into breeding chattel," Bors tilted his head as he dropped his finger to the trigger.

"Before marriage, all slaves are given freedom, a law in Drayden prevents a person from marrying one indentured or in service," said Schieber as his eyes noticed Bors trigger, "all slaves, even those used for labor, are freed; but most stay on and work the compound because it provides adequate food, security and community."

"Yet you come back to purchase more slaves to fill your ranks," pushed Bors.

"Everyone gains their freedom, eventually. I admit the system of my family isn't great," Schieber nodded and looked to Trip before turning back to Bors, "and that is why I couldn't take part of it. I left not just to serve the greater community, but to avoid that system my father started in Drayden. For me, at least, it is a black mark on my background that I did not want to be public knowledge. Not to mention I feel closer to my mother because she was the one that raised me."

Bors moved his finger from the trigger and after a long pause, "I won't tell, Quintus."

"I prefer Quin," said Schieber as he smiled under his helmet, "thank you, Jamie."

"It's still Knight Bors too you, Operative," said the Brotherhood of Steel Knight as he laid his rifle back to his chest and kept walking north, "we need to meet up with the Centurions."

"Aye, Knight Bors," nodded Schieber as he followed with Trip the robot keeping a distant watch for threats.

"That's what I love to hear, Operative," said the Knight as they soldiered on; _there is something rotten in the state of Drayden_, thought Schieber as his heavy foot falls cracked the weather beaten ground.


	6. The Chaos in Megaton

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 6.) The Chaos in Megaton

Three days had passed since Scribe Elizabeth Jameson first got word of about the man named Galvin Cobb. While the drinking song from a self proclaimed Talon deserter was not enough, some independent research confirmed the information as best could be in the Capitol Wasteland. Jameson had called another counsel meeting but instead of meeting the three men together, she decided on meeting individually. Operative Juan Alvarado still had no feeling or mobility in his left arm, Doctor Gordon Hopkins of Grayditch did not give a positive prognosis but the young man still had hope. Operative Lolli Pop was still in a state of shock but was still able to function through the day. And then there was the prisoner in front of the Scribe, unknown for such a long time, with a smirk on his face a kin to superiority but clearly bravado to Jameson.

She knew the cards were in her favor as her hands opened the manila folder, "you have been quite the handful," Jameson pulled a piece of paper that had an artist's rendering of the prisoner's face on it.

"You're Knight thought so," answered the prisoner with a smirk on the corners of his lips, "that is until he didn't have a brain to think with."

"You are a piece of work," stated Jameson without letting the comment get to her, she slid the wanted poster and bounty notice from Littlehorn and Associates across the desk, "Commander Galvin Cobb."

The prisoner bit his bottom lip and held his tongue between his teeth and bottom lip, "don't know who you're talking about," he said with a shake of his head.

"I can see why you wish to remain anonymous, Commander Cobb," Elizabeth tapped the wanted poster with the prisoner's etching on it; "you're quite the _wanted_ man. Though I must admit, the Littlehorn engraving is more flattering."

Cobb pushed the paper poster back to the Scribe, "I don't think you heard me, I don't know who you're talking about."

"Well, Galvin, can I call you Galvin? Seeing as I'm your defender, I'm the closest thing you have to a friend in this town," Jameson was smiling inwardly, "and as I've said before, I will work just as hard to get you free as my own people."

The frown on Cobb's face made him look older by a decade, "nah, you won't defend me. I'll spend the rest of my life in a jail cell. And my name ain't Galvin."

"You really think it'll be jail time you serve," answered Jameson as she sat back with her arms across her chest, "you are up on charges that can carry a sentence of execution."

"I'm up for a charge on that, but you see the man I killed wasn't a resident of this town," Galvin Cobb was leaning forward and smiling from ear to ear, "I'm a known danger, what with shooting that guard; but frankly, doll, there is one thing I know this town doesn't want more than a killer amongst their midst."

Jameson nodded for Cobb to continue, the former Talon Commander smiled and leaned back, "the good people of Grayditch would rather have one killer under lock and key than the constant presence of the Brotherhood of Steel. Sure, you guys might have helped speed the process of this town coming back, but your interference has been getting to them as of late. Do you really think this town needs a battalion of Brotherhood elitists amongst them? Not now with that Regulator sheriff keeping order. Seems that mayor is pretty competent, or the people around him are capable."

"Interesting theory you have there, Galvin," nodded Jameson, "but know that this was a pleasantry. I, of course, need inform the prosecution of your identity. I highly doubt that Thomas Notley or Mayor Fleet will be willing to house the 'Fool of Takoma' when nearly three thousand caps are leveled on your capture."

Cobb's face didn't betray his internal fear, the bravado on his face had taken years to perfect, "we shall see, doll."

Jameson stood up and called the Knights in to take Commander Cobb away, "by the way, Galvin, I hate being called 'Doll'."

Elizabeth wiped her brow as she walked through the main hall of the Grayditch guard office. In a separate room sat Lolli Pop with his commanding officer, Star Paladin Bael, there were two Brotherhood Knights guarding the door. Jameson nodded the guards and rapped on the door, Bael got to his feet and cracked the door open.

"Yes, Scribe Jameson," he answered, his face shockingly similar to Galvin Cobb as he held a façade that betrayed no emotion.

"What are you doing with my client," asked Elizabeth, fully committing to the roll of defense attorney.

Bael smiled, the kindness he portrayed slipped into a sinister grin for a second but Jameson was able to catch it, "just talking with one of my Operatives."

Jameson's face turned fowl and she whispered lowly, "as long as your Operative is under custody they can not be given orders, Lyons was clear on this issue."

The Star Paladin's projected jovial attitude disappeared in an instance, "last time I checked, Scribe Jameson, Elder Lyons was lying in a coma in that shit excuse of run down building they call a hospital here. As they are my Operatives, I will do with them as I please."

"You might be a Star Paladin, Bael, but remember who out ranks you here in Grayditch," answered Jameson as she pressed a finger to his power armor.

Bael flared his nostrils as he calmed his attitude and held his tongue, "I know very well."

"If these boys do anything that cost them a fair trial, I will hold it on your head," she hammered into his skull.

"Will you allow me to talk with my other Operative, Scribe," asked the Star Paladin, holding the venom on his tongue.

"About what?" Elizabeth was seeing how working with Bael could be difficult.

Cristano Bael raised one of his eyebrows, "I'm concerned for the kid's health, like it or not, I do feel some duty to my Operatives."

Jameson nodded, "as long as there are no orders to harm Commander Cobb or any of the guards, I see no reason why you can't talk with Juan. He's a good young man and he needs some leadership."

Bael nodded as Jameson turned around to walk away, but turned around as Bael had a last comment, "quick question, Elizabeth, after Rothchild officially becomes the new Elder, will you replace him as Head Scribe? Would Yearling be on the short list to head the Order of the Quills?"

Scribe Elizabeth Jameson frowned, "that was two questions," she briskly walked away.

She walked into the former private residence serving as councilor chambers, the Mayor's office, and prep area for the legal staffs. Jameson kept Scribe Mendel busy the majority of the day by organizing information reading up on legal codes from the three hundred year history of the former United States of America. The office of the defense was littered with papers, files, half charred law books and a terminal that had all of the Arlington Archive uploaded to its hard drive.

The prosecutor's office conversely held few items in it besides a long desk. Assistant Mayor Thomas Notley was eating his lunch at the desk, an action Jameson had noticed the man taken up when patrons of the local dinner pestered him for information on the trial. The inability of the Grayditch Guardian to reach the general or poorer population of the township where is started created a craving of current information. On the desk was the boiled head of a mole rat, seasoned with something fragrant from Drayden, with a side of purple potato crisps. Notley turned the head upside down and pulled the jaw from the socket and removed the tongue.

"That looks…appetizing," offered Elizabeth with a grimace.

"It's an acquired taste," admitted the Assistant Mayor as he left the enlarged rodent's tongue on the faded red plate, he wiped his hands on a piece of cloth, "I'd ask you to join me, but I doubt you came here to do that."

"I've already eaten," commented the Scribe as she handed over a copy of the file she had made on her client, "I just wanted you to get a copy of this. Based on some of the legal codes I've read up on, we're to exchange lists of evidence we plan on introducing."

"Commander Galvin Cobb, hmm," he looked up to Elizabeth and pursed his lips, "so this is the unnamed prisoner that shot Jonas?"

"Allegedly," corrected the defense counsel, "you'll find all the information I could collect on his life there. Talon Company, commission to Takoma Park and Industrial, along with Littlehorn and Associates bounty."

"Hmmm, why give this to me," questioned Notley as he closed the file and turned back to the boiled mole rate tongue.

Elizabeth turned away slightly so she didn't have to see him cut the tongue and eat it, "tradition for the basis of legal code we're working with…"

"I think there is more to it than that," rejoined the Assistant Mayor, "perhaps there is a specific path you want me to go down. I wouldn't call that a fair and equal balance between your clients."

"Also, I'm going to ask to separate the trials of my clients," continued Jameson, not rising to the bait.

"That's impossible, the Brotherhood members were caught in the act together," replied Notley.

"That's actually up to the justices to decide," answered Scribe Jameson.

"Well, we'll have to see after the referendum," he chewed the tongue a little longer before swallowing, "the people will get to vote for their top five representatives."

"The Brotherhood plans to witness this polling first hand to ensure no electoral tampering," confirmed the Scribe.

"I'll make sure to apprise Henry of the information you presented to me," answered Tom Notley with a nod as he dug into the boiled mole rat head more, "good day, Scribe Jameson."

Operative Quin Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors, along with their robotic assistant Trip, had arrived at the Brotherhood of Steel's northern frontier outpost. The tunnel looked to have been cut into the face of the mountain side; the only access remained through the service entrance. There were waist high barricades and a sniper nest to help with protection. Inside, the remnants of the former slaving pen and camp were moved inside to create a barracks, bedding, kitchenette, and holding pen for wildlife. There were a few mole rats held in the pen with a trough that had a mixture of water and leftovers from food items.

The Centurions had welcomed Schieber and Bors even though they were not familiar with them individual but because they were contact from the Brotherhood. Having to relieve news from the past month and half was taxing for the Operatives. They also made certain that the Centurions checked in with Citadel Control through the signal boost by Trip on a nearby radio tower that had power. They were going over the intelligence gathered by the frequent patrols half the team would be on while the other half kept the outpost running. Another patrol was to be scheduled and Bors had talked their way onto it.

Sentinel Julian Tristan was in his 'Dillo Wear, the group sniper was with him, along with one of the heavy weapons experts. Tristan's second-in-command, a Paladin by the name of Travis, was left in charge while they were out. Tristan had his plasma rifle at the ready. The heavy weapons expert was using a Gatling laser minigun with energy pack. The sniper had a standard DKS-501, but along with it was a wooden stocked weapon that had multiple rings down the barrel. Schieber was unfamiliar with weapon.

"Sparrow, what's that weapon you have," asked the young Operative.

The sniper took the weapon from her back and turned a chamber on the right side that made it glow a faint blue down the ringed barrel, "M72 Gauss Rifle, seven ring electromagnetic accelerator, standard two millimeter ammo, twenty round magazine, single shot. Can pass through concrete, steel, stone, and tissue with ease."

She strapped the rifle to her back again and kept up with the others, "can I…can I hold it?"

"No," said Sparrow without even looking at the Operative.

The heavy weapons specialist just laughed through his augmented helmet, "have a little gun envy," he asked with a laugh.

"Quiet down, Centurions," ordered the Sentinel, "Sparrow, scout the ridge, Murphy, give her backup. Find where that stairway is to get to the shacks that are supposed to be up there."

The Centurions Murphy and Sparrow nodded and walked to the far ridge, "Sentinel Tristan, I know you wanted to scout the area, but these shacks seem out of the way."

"There are supposedly humans living there that are runaway slaves," answered the Sentinel as he kept his eyes scanning the wasteland, "we picked up some intel from an old encampment."

"What are you hoping we find, sir?" Jamie Bors loved being out in the field, but the openness and beating heat of the northern frontier was starting to get to him.

"Short of paradise on earth, Knight, I hope we find some live humans that have eked out an existence in this landscape without turning to cannibalism or enslavement," answered Tristan as he kept his head rotating, "at worst we find some dead bodies that may have food and medical supplies on them."

Sparrow and Murphy reported back, "found the stairway, its cut into the rock and braced with logs, up north west facing side, half a click."

"Any signs of life," the questioned was posed to Sparrow who shook her head, Tristan ordered the patrol, "saddle up, forward."

The small patrol made their war up the roughly placed passage way cut into the slope of the mountain. The stairs were compounded earth held in place by the wood remains scavenged from old and destroyed homes. The sniper, Sparrow, was scouting ahead of the patrol while the heavy weapon's specialist, Murphy, was covering the rear. Sparrow reported into the shared helmet communications from her vantage point.

"I have five mutties in the center of the settlement and two centaurs guarding both entrances to the northwest and south," there was a pause as everyone had stopped moving to listen, "three, maybe four structures make up the settlement…three hostages are in the center of town, bound and kneeling."

"Fucking mutties," growled Sentinel Julian Tristan as he waved Murphey over, "I'm going to want covering fire on those beasts so Sparrow can send them back to their master."

"Sentinel Tristan, I have an idea," started Quin slowly.

"Operative, I like having the extra firepower but leave the plan making to those with far more experience," he ordered as he talked with his plans to the rest of the patrol.

Schieber glowered, not being able to offer a plan made him feel like a third wheel in Tristan's show. Bors turned to him and squeezed Quin's shoulder. The Operative from Drayden turned to his temporary partner and senior officer.

"We still have an order we need to adhere to in this organization," said the Knight in what he thought was a calming voice of reason, "we're just observers."

Schieber nodded as they listened to Tristan's plan. Sparrow took up an easy snipe position while lying on her stomach. Murphy was in position to suppress the mutant from the south entrance and move them right into the path of Sparrow's sights. Tristan, Bors and Schieber were near the entrance with Trip guarding their rear. Their assault would begin on the Sentinel's first shot, the centaur had not noticed them yet.

Sentinel Julian Tristan lined up his first shot with his plasma rifle to neck and chest of the centaur and pulled the trigger. The centaur's disgusting and horrendous life, from when a wastelander and a dog were thrown into a vat of FEV to emerge the watch beasts of super mutants, came to an end with one shot of green plasma. Murphy opened fire with his laser machine gun, his spray led to the opening of a path between the super mutants. The three Brotherhood members moved forward in a squatted formation opening fire to push the super mutants away from the hostages. Sparrow took her first shot, the skull of super mutant with a minigun exploded and chunks with green blood covered the armor of Schieber and Bors.

"One," she counted off into the in helmet comm. units.

Sentinel Tristan and the Operatives made it to the center of the settlement. Tristan kneed a hostage in the back to send him on the ground face first and flat. Bors took his hand of the grip of his laser rifle and lowered his hostage into a similar position. Scheiber was not quick enough, he went to place his hostage down when another super mutant with a minigun opened fire and tore up his hostage's right side. The wasteland settler fell sideways into the dust, dark red blood pooling around his body. Quin was caught up in his own world of regret, guilt and instant self loathing as air bubbles frothed from the multiple holes in the wasted settler's lung. He stopped sighing and Schieber's attention quickly turned back to the fight as he felt low caliber ammo hit his armor.

The super mutant with a minigun soon felt the long reach of Sparrow as it's head exploded and he landed to the ground with a monstrous thud, "two," she counted into the communications unit.

The Sentinel and the Operatives formed a wall separating the hostages from the super mutants and opened fired at ease because they were facing hunting rifles while wearing power armor. Murphy swung his machine laser to fire upon the arm and hand of a muttie trying to use a grenade. The laser beams tore through the large green fist and ignited the fragmentation grenade destroying the beasts arm and causing to bleed out in a few seconds. The heavy weapons specialist called out his first kill into the communications unit.

Schieber quickly took out the centaur at the northwest entrance. Bors took down a super mutant with a fast barrage of laser beams. Sentinel Tristan felled the last mutant with a plasma pinch and swiveled his head around. He turned around to the other two members and the robot that was with them. He holstered his plasma rifle and withdrew a combat knife that had many dings and nicks into it.

"Outside clear, Murphy and Sparrow, take watch on the entrances," he cut the bonds on his hostage's wrists, "can you speak?"

Bors did the same with an equally battered blade as he helped his hostage free and dusted her shoulders off, Tristan directed questions to his settler, "how many more are in the shacks. Are there any more settlers?"

"Please…please don't-t-t…hurt us…" sputtered the settler as Tristan couldn't help but snarl behind his helmet.

"We're Brotherhood, we've come to help," answered the Sentinel with hate in his voice.

"That…that-t-t symbol…," the settler's palm brushed the Centurion helmet painted on the Sentinel's chest, "I'm…I'm from-m-m Dicker-r-r-son."

Tristan turned away from the hostage to see his team securely watching the entrances, he noticed the dead settler that Schieber hadn't moved away from. He walked over and looked at the limp and pale body before him. He tapped the body that used to belong to a living human with his armored foot. The body turned over, the dirty cloth and brahmin leather were soaked in blood. Sentinel Tristan raised his hand to Schieber and punched him across the face.

"You fucking green sonofabitch!" He shouted as he forced the Operative onto the ground and kicked him repeatedly, "I told you to get them down so they lived. You killed him, you fucking killed him."

Bors ran between the two and pushed the Sentinel away, "Stop, Tristan, stop!"

Tristan wiped the back of his hand across the mouth piece of his helmet, "Knight, do not interfere when I reprimand a soldier."

"WE are not your squad," answered Bors as he helped Schieber up, "I will tend to my Operative as you tend to the settlers."

"A Knight is in no place to give a Sentinel any orders," snarled the head of the Centurions.

"When BIOS was created by Elder Lyons he put us outside of the control of Brotherhood hierarchy for this specific reason," Bors took off his helmet as he stared the Sentinel down, "we've been respectful until now, please don't think that respect was anything more than just regard for your title."

"The north can be a lonely place without friends to rely on, Knight," answered Tristan as he moved to the other settler that was saved.

"Are you okay," Bors asked of Schieber as he was still prostrate on the ground, "I think the armor would have absorbed those blows."

"Hardly felt a thing except being pushed over," admitted Quin, "but the Sentinel is right, I got that person killed."

"It happens, it's all about luck," Bors lifted Schieber up, "zig or zag, it's still a fifty-fifty chance you get a round in your chest and your written in the Great Codex."

"I just…I was there and…then they weren't," was all Quin could say.

Bors nodded and patted his shoulder, "Trip, can you get readings on the structures."

"Two of the buildings are empty; one contains living individuals, approximately five," recited Trip after a few seconds of scanning, "structure to the south entrance way contains three human life signs and one irradiated being with a heavy weapon."

"Sentinel Tristan, we have one more in this building," Bors pointed out the structure to the south entrance.

The Sentinel and his squad lined up to the door. They broke it in and Murphy moved forward to rip the super mutant apart with his laser machine gun. The flamer in the mutant's hands dropped as he fell dead. Five people moved in to secure those humans inside. Two women were on the floor, malnourished to the point that the rags they called clothes barely hung to their skin and bone frames. The third was a man on a counter.

He looked a sickly green as parts of his legs were missing. There was a recently grown beard on his face and what looked to be hair that was neatly cut for years and only recently became unkempt and shaggy. A muscular frame was reduced to a more lithe form from malnourishment and starvation. His Adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed air and his spit. Schieber lowered his rifle as he moved to the man brushed his hair away.

"It…it can't be…," stated Schieber into his communication unit.

Bors moved closer, "he doesn't looked so good," the Knight examined the legs more closely, the feet were useless as most of the tendons were cut and the skin was missing on both legs up to the mid-calf or knee; and random chunks were removed from the meat and fat of the legs.

"Get me some water," ordered Schieber as held out his hand.

Bors opened a compartment in his armor and handed a bottle of aqua pura, "here."

Schieber uncapped the bottle and held it to the man's lips, he grabbed it with two hands it tipped it back to drink hardily. Quin removed his helmet and let his sweaty hair hang around his face. He took his armored gloves off and used his bare hands to move the hair from the man's face. Bors pulled him back.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing," asked the Knight.

"It's…I can't believe this…we thought he died…," said Schieber in a mixture of shock and awe.

"Who is it?" Demanded Bors.

The man opened his eyes and looked at Schieber's face, "bloatfly larva…gone and gotten…yourself a set of…real armor."

The words were pained from the man's mouth but Schieber couldn't help but smile and pat him on the chest a little, "Paladin Bruce, we thought…it's good to see you, sir."

Paladin Bruce coughed and Schieber held him down so he didn't injure his legs more, "wait, Paladin Bruce?" Asked Bors in shock.

The Brotherhood of Steel Paladin nodded, Bors turned to the robot, "Trip get to the nearest broadcast tower and call Citadel Control for a vertibird rescue team here immediately."

Trip moved out of the room and hovered on to the nearest broadcast tower, the Operative moved in closer to Paladin Bruce, "who did this…how you ended up here?"

Paladin Bruce grabbed onto Schieber's hand and held it tight, "Drummond, they call him Drummond."

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were on the dock with Scribe Yearling and Acting Elder Rothchild. Ban was in a suit, which was olive green and had several ribbons and medals pinned to the chest, one of the recovered items from the basement holdings of the Pentagon. He leaned heavily against a crutch as he itched around the suit that irritated his skin. Rothchild glowered at this action as they waited on the vertibirds taxing the _BCSS Law and Order_ into port for security and holding. The Lyons' Pride had been recalled totally from Friendship Heights for this meeting.

They served both as added security and a connection to the infirm Elder Lyons. There was no band, no music or fanfare, as the Brotherhood shied from frivolous ceremony. Though, in this instant, Reginald Rothchild had a planned welcoming gift for the captain of the ship, because the head of the pilgrimage, diplomatic mission, and delegation was not entirely clear. The civilians and small security force were being rushed into the Capital Wasteland because of an unprecedented threat at sea; the only known certain was that dry land afforded more protection than on the deck of a Nimitz class air carrier.

"Citadel Control, this is Victor Alpha and Victor Bravo, we are proceeding to port with Lima Oscar, eta fifteen minutes," crackled a radio set that was shared by those on dock with power armor.

"T minus fifteen," announced Sentinel Lyons as her men stood shoulder to shoulder.

The other Knights for security and protection were in staged position along with several Scribes helming the manual controls of the turrets, Hannah turned to Ban, "this all…so exciting."

"Guests and fish both stink after three days," Michael quoted the premier ambassador and statesman, Benjamin Franklin, as he eyes focused on the lapping water, "though it is interesting that such a governmental body can be formed to reach this far."

"A government on par with the Brotherhood of Steel," offered Newton.

"More like the New California Republic, but hopefully less ambitious," corrected Ban as he mind traveled to the civil war that occurred at the arrogance of Elder Jeremy Maxson.

"There are hardly any recordings in the Codex about the civil war," said the Operative with hunger for information behind her eyes.

"It was hardly civil," answered Ban as he chewed his lips, "but I was young then. Most of us were children then."

They waited a few minutes as a large grey hulking beast sidled up the remnants of the Potomac. Two vertibirds hovered on the sides like a flies, occasionally oscillating and dragging behind as the battleship moved ever forward. The Scribes and Knights scrambled around the large constructed deck and calibrated the machine one last time. As the floating steel beast, a Pre-War military technology that seldom few had seen for centuries, continued forward as it began to pull in to dock. Yawing and large creaks were heard as South Dakota class battleship wedged itself between the share rock face and the newly constructed dock.

The military gray painted on the _BCSS Law & Order_ had lasted a long time on the hull of the ship but portions were missing and letting a slightly rusted hull show. The large white number, fifty-nine, was clearly visible to all those on shore. The creaking stopped as the water forced the ship up and down slowly as the gangway was lowered from a hatch on the right side. A larger hatch opened up farther down with many men, women, and the occasional animal poked their heads up to see dry land. As the smaller hatch connected the gangway to the dock, with three men standing at the top, the Knights and security detail turned complete attention to the ship. Turrets were pointed, manually and automatically, at the side of the ship as the barrier locks opened to hold the large battleship in place.

The barriers shocked those onboard the ship, the nine six inch Mark Six batteries remained unmoved as the three triple turrets adjusted aim to the deck and barriers. The two escort vertibirds returned to the Citadel, landing side-by-side in the courtyard. Three men, the first from what remained of New England, descended down the gangway to set their feet on dry land. It was the first time all three had been on dry land in over a year since this pilgrimage began. They wobbled a little, not fully comfortable with the feel of something below their feet that didn't sway up and down. The man in the middle was wearing a white uniform with many medals were pinned to his chest, that harkened to a time before the Great War. To his left was another man wearing a three piece suit in charcoal gray, a red tie with handkerchief tucked into his pocket.

The final member of the first envoy was far different from the rest. He wore a loose white shirt with a simple leather waist coat that had several ribbed opening on the shoulder that fanned out. His pants were leather as well, a sash tied around his waist for a belt, a small leather pouch holding the coins of his countries. The boots were did not have laces and rode high to the mid-calf, the leather pants tucked into them to give a bloused looked. The others had short cut or military style hair, but this man had longer hair and a light beard. Something about this man spoke the words dashing rogue and dangerous.

"Captain Cabot," nodded acting Elder Rothchild as he and Scribe Yearling moved forward with Ban and Newton staying behind, "it is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Elder Reginald Rothchild, the current head of the Citadel and Brotherhood of Steel operations in the Capital region."

"Dry land has a different feel to it than the decks of the _Law and Order_," commented the Captain, the sound of his vowels were all low leading to a rather drawn out accent, "These men that join me are Ambassador Schultz, the official representative of the Commonwealth, and Lord of Brighton, Charles Everidge, Prime Advisor to the Prince of Brandia."

The men lean forward an offered their hands, Rothchild outstretched his and greeted them with a warm yet strong grip, "A pleasure as well, gentlemen. With me is Scribe Janice Yearling, head of the Arlington Archives."

"My Prince has heard a fair amount of this archive from Lady Newton and would surely love a tour if permitted, Scholar Yearling," said Charles Everidge, the Lord of Brighton.

Yearling's face was unreadable, "please, let me introduce you to Knights Michael Ban and Hannah Netwon."

The two of them nodded to the Ambassador, the Prime Advisor, and the Captain, "Lady Newton, I presume you are in the armor."

"Indeed I am, Prime Advisor…" said Newton her helmet making her voice cold and metallic.

"Please, call me Charles," replied Lord Brighton, his smile was wide and toothy but warm and in no way threatening.

"We've heard of your injuries, Knight Ban," said the Ambassador of the Commonwealth as he stared up and down the man leaning on the crutch, "we are thrilled to see you in person, and perhaps while we're here you will recover quick enough to assist some of the envoy on their pilgrimage."

"I only hope to be of assistance," answered Ban with a nod of his head.

"We talked on how this was not to be a formal meeting, given the circumstances," said Rothchild as Yearling handed him a wooden box, "but consider this a token of our hospitality and the momentous occasion this day brings, Captain Cabot."

The Captain nodded and picked up the case, just as wide as his shoulders. He held it with one hand and popped the metal latches on either side. Opening the case, the musty smell of time and age drifted to the Captain's nose. Inside was an antiquated laser pistol with several cartridges. Along the hand was engraved the name of the weapon, Smuggler's End. He smiled as he showed the weapon to the Prime Advisor and Ambassador.

"General Bannister's personal side weapon, truly an honor, Elder Rothchild, truly," answered the Captain, "with your permission, we'll begin to disembark and set up camp."

"You have our permission Captain, and if my men could be of help, please just ask Knights Ban or Newton," said the Elder as he began to walk away.

"If you don't mind, I'd wish to accompany you and talk more, Elder Rothchild," requested Ambassador Schultz.

"Certainly," said Rothchild as he beckoned the man to walk with him to Citadel Plaza, "Yearling, I expect everything to be in fine working order."

The Scribe nodded and walked to the Captain, "anything we can assist with?"

"Let's get the mules down first and then we'll see what needs to be done," replied the Captain as he spoke into his wrist.

The gangway landed on the deck and was secured by the second, and larger, hatch. Three six wheeled vehicles with remote operators rolled down slowly, the power armor hid the amazement of the Brotherhood members at what was clearly post-War technology. The Prime Advisor was next to Ban and Newton, engaging them in conversation. The transports made it to the bottom of the gangway and onto the dock, lining up to make room for people and animals that were brought to get unloaded.

"Those motorized transports are mules?" Scribe Yearling was one of the most knowledgeable people on Pre-War technology.

"They make hauling supplies easy, but they sure are ugly," said the Captain as a matter-of-fact, "it's why we call them mules, useful beasts of burden but ugly son-of-a-guns."

"They're…beautiful," replied the Scribe, their utilitarian form intrigued her; _perhaps there is a lot we can learn from these Commonwealth visitors…with minimal force_.

Knight Captain Galeas hated the Alexandria. More to the point, she hated how the Pre-War hotel and current base for the BIOS had become her albatross. The bonds around her neck only felt like they were getting tighter and tighter, weighing her down in one position. She rather be doing something in the field, instead she was covering the paper work from all the Operatives that were out in the field and operating all intelligence brought in by regular patrols and defended positions. This work load was supposed to be split between her, Star Paladin Bael, and Scribe Yearling. Instead, Bael was assisting in the trial and Yearling was assisting in the arrival of the civilians form the former New England Commonwealth.

Operative Anna LaCroix walked into Galeas office. She stayed at attention in front of a commanding officer. The Operative did not make a sound, there was no need too. The Knight Captain knew she was present; she was the one that had called the meeting. Silence haunted the room before the Knight Captain turned her gaze to the Operative.

"Sometimes in service, we are asked to make terrible decisions," said the Knight Captain, "one such decision has been passed down to me, and will you be prepared to fulfill it?"

"Ma'am, if I knew more about the order, then I would gladly tell you," replied LaCroix honestly.

"How this organization operates is not based on you making a decision after getting all the information," answered Galeas, "and you will need to give an answer right now."

"I will do my duty," LaCroix tried not to pause again, any sign of hesitance would have looked bad.

The Knight Captain removed an old combat knife that had served her well over the years, "Bael wants you to take care of the servant situation in the basement."

"Take…care of, ma'am, does he mean," LaCroix stopped herself.

"Fulfill your duty, Operative," answered the Knight Captain as she turned back to her work.

Anna reluctantly picked up the knife and held it in her hands, it felt heavier than it looked. She walked out of the office and made her way to the basement. The whole time, she did not take her eyes of the blade. Kimi Mahal looked up to the Operative, combat knife in hand, her brown eyes hopeful. She knelt and leaned forward, holding onto the bars.

"Come to set me free," she asked, a smile on the corner of her lips, "I knew Elias would convince you."

LaCroix opened the cage and helped the servant woman up. Kimi offered her hands to be unbound. Anna cut the cords and let them fall to the ground. The servant turned her back on LaCroix. The heat from the incinerator was getting to Anna. She was sweating through her clothes, her breathing was labored. The rushing of water caused a pounding in her head, the heat was getting to her.

_How…how can they expect me to do this_, she asked in her head. The throbbing continued, the blood rushing in her head making the pounding hurt more and more. She whipped her brow as she stared at the back of Kimi Mahal, the girl was saying something but LaCroix couldn't hear it. Her vision was blurring, spots that were white and light blue were swimming at the corners of her eyes. The insistent pounding, the heat, the heavy weight of the blade in her hands was making her sense of self-awareness disappear in confusion. The pounding would not stop. The heat only felt it would get hotter, her arm dragging to the weight of the blade; and the whole time Kimi stood with her back to the Operative.

A few hours later, Operative LaCroix opened the door to the servant quarters. She knelt down near the bunk of Elias. Burying her head between her arms as she held her hands together, Anna began to cry. The sound of tears awoke the servant with a damaged leg. He turned in his bunk to see the head of the girl he considered his pupil buried between her arms and praying. He stroked her hair back to let her know he was there and awake.

"I did…I did something horrible, Elias," said the woman with tears in her brown eyes.

"It will be okay," he said, already knowing what happened by the sound of her sobs and voice, "the lord is just and forgiving."

Knight Captain Galeas saw the recently cleaned knife on her desk. She picked it up and tossed it into the top draw of her desk. Locking the draw, she pocketed the key as she turned off the lights and closed her office door. There was a small smile on her face.

Scribe Georgina Mendel walked up to Star Paladin Bael, who was visiting the defense counsel's office. She threw a folder onto the table and leaned forward against the counter. Her eyes sparkled and shone the same look she had when she finished a mathematical equation or had an experiment yield the same results twice. The Star Paladin looked up to her, his face unmoving and unflinching stone. He pulled the file and opened it to see marked pages from the transcripts sent in from his Operatives in the Megaton region.

"What is it," asked Cristano Bael, not really reading the marked lines.

"I was going over some of the reports and found that Operative J.R. talked at length about this new doctor transported to the Vault 101," said the Scribe as she sat down, "I checked with Doc Hopkins and he said that this Doctor, Peter Williams Cushing, he is the best neurologist and neurosurgeon from the Enclave."

Bael's eyes squinted, "and you want him to cut open the Elder's head and poke around a bit. Georgina do you know how stupid this sounds?"

"Bael, this could heal the Elder, get everything back on track," said the Scribe, trying to force the issue.

Bael pushed the folder back, "assuming we can trust this Enclave doctor, which is a big assumption. That assumption would be so large, not even Liberty Prime could be able to fill if Rothchild's machine was still functioning. The chances of the Vault having all the proper medical equipment are not even close to a reality. Sure, it'll be better fit than anywhere else but I've read inventory for vault hundred and one."

Mendel stared at the Star Paladin in shock, "this is Elder Lyons we're talking about."

"And you want to do everything possible to save him, I understand," Bael's eyes flashed, "I want Lyons back as well, but what you suggest just isn't the way."

"You won't listen to reason, will you," pleaded Georgina.

"I'd entertain reason, just not foolhardy endeavors," rejoined Bael, he got up to leave the office, "tell Jameson when she comes in that Plan Charlie and Delta are in place."

Mendel remained silent for a long time, watching the door that Bael left from. A few minutes had only passed until the proctor for the Order of the Quills arrived. She held her hand to her chest as she gasped inwardly. She sighed before walking to her desk and opening a draw.

"Don't do that, Georgina, you scared me half-to-death," reprimanded Jameson.

"Why is Bael so…" Mendel didn't finish her comment.

"Obscure and obtuse?" The counsel of the defense offered, "most of the old time Knights and Paladins are, and in some respects us Scribes as well. Look at Peabody, if you need any more of an example. Don't take what he says or does to heart, he only means well for the Brotherhood."

"There is a neurosurgeon in vault hundred and one that may be of help but he refuses to think of even requesting the transfer," Mendel complained to her superior.

"Wait, there's a doctor that is well versed in brain surgery in the vault," Jameson practically smiled and scoffed at the same time, "Mendel, while there is a chain of command going down, don't forget there is one going up as well. Go over his head."

"But as the operational head of BIOS, there are few people seated ahead of him," answered the Scribe, "unless you mean…of course!"

"Yes, send a wire to Rothchild immediately, I'm sure he'll approve if I put my name on the order request," Jameson slide a piece of paper to her assistant, "just don't bad mouth Star Paladin Bael in the form, it wouldn't look good for anyone; especially you."

It had been four days of waiting and planning for the three Operatives in Megaton. Four days of testing the skill of six ghouls leant to them by Crowley. It took only one day to augment their armor the way they needed it, one more to convey the plan to their ace in the hole. The last two days were waiting for Jericho, the Sheriff, to leave the city so as to allow more confusion to occur. As luck would have it, the Tenpenny caravan was arriving a day early and Moriarty wanted no mistakes so he sent Jericho and a few men to help it along the route. The three Operative and six ghouls were now staging the details of the plans again in the Simm's household.

"J.R. and Zack, once the ruckus begins, you sneak into the back as Doc Church opens his office door," said Roe as he pointed out on the crudely drawn map of the crater town, "I want Joe and Ben at this cross roads, and then have Don and I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"You've messed up all the names so far, smootheskin," said a ghoul with a white mustache, "there is no Joe or Ben, the men you pointed to are Zhao and Bin. Don isn't his name, it's Daan. And my name's Franklin, not that difficult to remember."

Roe rubbed his stubble and exhaled loudly, "I'm sorry...I'm just not used to Chinese…"

"Mandarin," corrected one of the American born ghouls, "and don't blame yourself, after two hundred years, we all tend to learn something."

"Where did Crowley get these guys," whispered Zimm from the uninjured corner of his mouth.

"We may be old kid, but some of us still have prefect hearing," answered one of the ghouls in consternation, "and most of these Reds were infiltrators or Chinese remnants working out of Mama Dulce's compound."

"Okay, okay, names don't mater, call me Captain Cacahead for all I care," said Roe, three of the ghouls giggled and exchanged words in mandarin, Dan sighed, "I need you two here and you four here at the entrance. We're going to make this a clean get away out the front door with the package as the diversion embroils into a full out conflict."

"Where will you be, Captain Cacahead," asked the smartass ghoul, Franklin.

"Helping the effects of the diversion," answered Roe as he packed a small rucksack and left the safe house.

Defender Arthur Wilderman, Knight Artemis while in the Brotherhood of Steel, took a break from watching the patient. The Raider girl was getting better, but she didn't matter to the Outcasts, they were to leave her in the city. Harkness on the other hand was the prime objective. He removed his helmet and lit a cigarette, a deadly habit he didn't advertise too openly. Letting the heavy Pre-War nicotine fill his lungs with the stale smoke, Wilderman kept his eyes open on to the base of the crater.

A guard walked past him, and the Outcast took that time to toss the butt of his cigarette with still glowing embers at his chest. The ash and embers blew up into his face causing him to get flustered for a second. The tension the Megaton guards and the Outcasts had grown to a boiling point, unease at their presence and hulking figures around camp. The mayor, Moriarty attempted to charge them exorbitantly, instead all food and drink was taken at the Brass Lantern. The guard turned and began to aim his rifle to the Outcast.

"Apologize," the guard ordered.

Wilderman just laughed and blew out smoke as he clamped his helmet on, "primitive tribal," was all he said as he turned around, his metallic voice finishing his statement, "next time get out of the way of my cigarette butt."

The guard cocked the bolt back to chamber a round, "I said apologize, tin can."

Wilderman turned around, "or what, you'll try to shoot me with that five point fifty-six millimeter caliber weapon that couldn't penetrate harden leather, let alone power armor."

"I mean it," shouted the guard.

"Little children shouldn't play with toys more advanced than their understanding permits," Wilderman advised as he turned to walk away.

The pings of gun fire were heard more than felt by the Outcast Defender as the guard's gun ran out of ammo, "oh shit," the guard said as he tried to change out the clip, "I need back up."

Wilderman turned around to see the guard jamming the clip in and shook his head before speaking into the communication unit, "we're going to have some trouble out here."

The town was quiet; all eyes were turned onto the scene. Under his helmet, Wilderman smiled, he swiveled his head to see all those looking down into the basin of the crater. Several guards were on their way to join their colleague. Wilderman took off his laser rifle from this back and aimed it at the guard that had shot him in the back. The two other Outcasts, Rockfowl and Morgan, had joined him at the door. A man in a dirty suit attempted to walk between the two groups. Wilderman pulled the trigger of his laser rifle.

Scribe Actaeon and the bounty hunter Samuel Warrick were sitting at the bar of Moriarty's Saloon. A bottle of whiskey between them, Warrick was on his third shot while Actaeon hadn't even touched his liquor. The ghoul bartender disgusted the Scribe, but Warrick seemed to have a good rapport with the abomination. Actaeon's eyes scanned the room, all from the darkness of his hood. Between the whores, patrons, and hired thugs, his eyes only stopped on one individual. This man had an uncomfortable feeling about him, long grey hair and a goatee while wearing a business suit; the tie was undone but he still seemed odd in such a suit.

"Mind where you gaze, lad," said the man in the suit, fidgeting with his sleeves, "a man could get da wrong impression from sucha stare."

Warrick turned around and clamped a hand on the Scribe's shoulder, "deh boy don't mean nothing by it, Mister Moriarty."

"Yeh lad, know him feh long?" Asked the Mayor of Megaton, "coz he seems familiar tah me, Sammy."

"Mi lad and I have been tah-gether fah a long while now," lied Sam Warrick, "ol' Hoodie's a great shot at five hundred meters out. Just needs to git down moving targets more."

"They tend to move in yeh line of work, Sammy," said Moriarty as the door to the saloon opened quickly and a corpulent older man with completely bald head in the leather guard's uniform rushed up to him, "Susa," acknowledged Moriarty.

"Mayor, there is an issue in the crater basin that needs your attention," the old man's lips smacked while he talked because he didn't have a full set of teeth.

"Let Jericho handle it," Moriarty tried to keep a somewhat good disposition.

"Well, Mister Mayor…there is a problem with that," Susa's face got ruddier, "he's not…not here."

Moriarty pulled Susa close, his mouth to the old man's ear, "where is my Sheriff?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to say, but he's out meeting the caravan from Tenpenny," said Susa, "on your orders."

Moriarty swore and pushed the old man forward threw the door, "what is happening in my city."

"It's the Outcasts, sir, they started a fight with one of the guards," answered the bald former raider.

"I just hope that idiot of a guard hasn't shot on them…" Moriarty said just as he opened the door to see the guard fire a whole clip into the back of the Outcast, the power armored man didn't even flinch.

Moriarty rushed down the ramps to the basin, waving his hands, Susa following behind him like a loyal dog, "hold it! Don't shoot, we can discuss this!"

But it was too late, the laser beam left the muzzle of the Outcast Defender's weapon and buried into to chest of the guard. The man fell backwards, the gun dropping from his grip as smoke rose from the hole in his chest and armor. Guards all around cocked the bolts back on their weapons aiming them at the Outcasts. Defender Rockfowl began to warm up his minigun with a half squeeze on the trigger. Anne Marie Morgan gave a head count into the communication unit.

"Wait, wait, we don't need to resort to violence," shouted Moriarty as he kept his hands up in the air.

"The time for negotiations is over," said Morgan through the metallic voice of her power helmet.

"We're all a bit on edge," tried to reason Moriarty, _fuck you Jericho, this is what I pay you for_, thought the Irishman, "so let's all just put our weapons away and talk like civilized people…"

Just as he was saying his last comment and explosion ripped through the men's public restrooms covering some of the people in the basin in fecal matter. All along Moriarty's back slopped the mess from the citizens of his town. The explosion caused the guards to cower but the Outcast just turned their attention to the explosion like it was part of everyday life. From the middle of the crowd of guards, a figure in a black face covering and combat armor pushed through and opened fire on the Outcasts.

"Get 'em boys!" Yelled the man in black as he ran to Moriarty, pushing the Mayor of Megaton down in the shit covered mud, "stay down, if you want to live, Mayor."

Moriarty turned upwards a little bit to see a white claw branded into the black combat armor, "Talon Company," he shouted in anger as the man in black pushed him into the mud again, "I'll get yah and Tenpenny for this, yah buggerers!"

Defenders Wilderman and Rockfowl opened fire onto the guards of Megaton, several towns people ran for cover and away from the fire fight. Morgan knelt down and started to fire pulse beams from her pistol, a reversed engineered piece of technology brought in by the Lone Wanderer. The blue beams hit their targets and exploded them into unbound atoms that fell into piles of carbon ash. At the same time the man in black ran behind the clinic to meet two others dressed in black.

"You ready for this," asked Roe as J.R. knocked on the door.

Doc Church opened the door and saw three well-armed men in black Talon armor with black face cloth, "I take it you're the boys the Outcast mentioned."

Not wanting to give away their voices, Roe nodded and the doctor let them in, "just don't make it hurt, too much."

J.R. grunted and as they got into the main floor of the clinic and hit the doctor in the back right at the top of the shoulders, not enough to knock him out but enough to make him easily fake unconsciousness. They walked over to the bed with John Harkness sitting on the edge of the gurney. He looked up at them, brown synthetic eyes looking into their faceless masks.

"My rescue has arrived," he said, using his voice for the first time in nearly a week.

"Something like that," said Zach Zimm, his voice slightly changed because of the injured cheek.

Harkness popped up from his gurney, double checked his bandages as he put his leather satchel on, "then let's hit the trail."

The door to the clinic opened and the Outcasts poured in. Wilderman was carrying in Morgan who took a round in the soft joint of the knee. Rockfowl laid down a suppressing fire to help them retreat to cover. Morgan looked up and saw the three men in black with Harkness, the momentary pause saw neither of them move. The android broke the hesitation first and ran through the doctor's office as he pulled Roe by the shoulder guard. Zimm and J.R. followed quickly, beating feet with their package and Roe.

"Harkness is getting away," informed Morgan to the others, "change of plan, we must regain the package."

"You're in no place to run anywhere," said Wilderman as Rockfowl closed the door and moved a desk in the way, "we need to leave this salvaged pit for Independence, now."

"I'm commander here, Wilderman, don't you forget that," said Morgan as she grunted and got onto her feet gingerly, "get me a stimpak and syringe of med-x from the Doc's medical cabinet."

"Yes, ma'am," said Wilderman as he got her the required medication.

Back at Moriarty's Saloon, Actaeon and Warrick had watched the Mayor of this slag settlement leave to tend a delicate situation. The Scribe kept his words to himself as he sipped from the shot of whiskey. Warrick was talking up with Gob the Ghoul again. Just as Actaeon turned around and laid the glass on the table an explosion sounded from his right. The sound scared many of the patrons and forced them to take cover under the counter and tables. Warrick and Actaeon got up quickly and moved to the door, both had their sniper rifles drawn. The deck of was covered in human waste and burning debris from the men's public toilet.

They both looked through their scopes, "seems like the Outcasts have been in town," said Warrick as he grimaced at the smell.

"Shots fired, man in black," said Actaeon before he growled, "Talon Company."

Warrick followed the man in black as well when laser fire began to discharge along with muzzle flashes, "gone to shit, now," said the Bounty Hunter, and then laughed, "nah pun intended."

"Should we intervene," asked Actaeon, not really caring for either side.

"We'll let the guards handle it," answered Sam as he turned the scope back to the clinic back door, "those guys in Talon armor, they aren't Talon."

"What makes you say that," the Scribe wondered.

"Talons are not ones for secrecy," Warrick saw through his scope as they entered into the clinic.

A few minutes later a man with a leather satchel and a makeshift shoulder cape ran from the doctor's office followed by the men dressed like Talon Company; Actaeon recognized his faced and pulled back the bolt, just as Warrick lifted the barrel up high into the air. The Outcasts had fallen back into the clinic and the guards were regrouping around the entrance. Despite the heavy armor and advance weapons, only ten of the near fifty guards were killed or wounded. The number of guards swelled as those from the Saloon poured out to help their friends.

"What en hell yah thinkin' of doin' boy?" Sam made sure their location was given up.

"That's Harkness down there," said Actaeon in a snarl, "you made me miss the shot."

"You'd've ne'er taken 'em down from 'ere," the Bounty Hunter began to walk through the shit and muck that covered the ramp, "if he's down there, we should be tah."

"And risk getting shot?" The Scribe was confused with the Bounty Hunter.

"Those fake Talon boys picked 'em up, my guess 's they've a plan to get 'em out of 'ere some'ow," said Warrick.

Roe, J.R., Zimm and Harkness met up with Zhao and Bin, J.R. asked in a hurry, "did you lay down the claymores?"

The two Chinese ghouls nodded, "lay the trip wire," ordered Roe as the continued forward.

The extraction team was now up to six people, including the package, and continued to run down the planned getaway path. An explosion alerted them that the claymore trip mines had gone off. It would have made any of the guards seriously wounded or dead, but for an Outcast in full power armor it would have only caused them to trip. The gate ahead was opened by the other four members of the team and held defensively as they ran through and the gate was closed behind them in minutes. All ten of them, the nine men in black and Harkness continued on a path away from Megaton, Springvale and other human contact.

The Sewer Waystation had been a festering center of radroaches and radscorpions. It was a midway point between the town limits of Megaton, Springvale, Vault 101 and the town of Grayditch and the Citadel. They regrouped, the Operatives removing their masks as the ghouls remained masked. Harkness looked them in their eyes, noting down their facial features. Roe undid his combat armor, the other two following suit. They replaced it with their gray Brotherhood of Steel combat armor and jackets.

The ghoul guards removed a patch from their armor, the white talon from the mercenary group. Inwardly, Harkness breathed easy because now he knew these men were not actually Talon Company. There was a table and several chairs set up, Harkness put his satchel down on the table and plopped himself down. He looked at his would be rescuers and took his plasma pistol out from the satchel and laid it on the table.

"Just so we're all on the level," he said openly to the others, the ghouls had all pointed weapons at him, "mind your men lowering those weapons."

"See, here's the thing, they aren't really our men," commented J.R. as he opened a pack of cigarettes and took one out, "are you a smoker?"

"Bad for your lungs," said Harkness with a smile, "so who exactly are you, if you're not Talon Company, nor Outcast."

"Seems like you have a fair amount of people after you," commented Roe.

"What can I say, I'm en vogue," Harkness was reading the biometric signatures each man was putting out, the ones that still had their faces covered read high levels of radiation, "I'm guessing working with ghouls are in style as well."

The ghoul guards all turned to look at the man, wondering how he could know what they were under their full black face covers, J.R. continued unperturbed, "see, there is a reason why you interest our group."

"So what now," asked Harkness, "perhaps some hard interrogation?" 

The metal doors to the Sewer Waystation opened and in walked Scribe Actaeon, hood covering his face and head. Sam Warrick was not too far behind him, covering the man from behind his back with his sniper rifle. The mid-day light shown into the room and gave more of an illuminated view for Sam to line up targets. The Scribe scanned the situation before settling his view on Roe.

"Thank you for picking him up, I'll take it from here," said the Scribe as he raised and pointed his index and middle fingers held together at Harkness.

Harkness strained his optics to see under the darkened hood at the man claiming him and smiled, "Scribe Actaeon, still alive, amazing…"

"Shut your mouth," ordered the Scribe as he walked forward and the ghouls all raised their weapons up to him.

Sam took that time to wound one with a shot into their shoulders, the ghoul to his left caught him to keep him upright, "Daan, ni hao ma?"

The ghoul replied in a graveled voice, "bie guan wo, Franklin."

"Fucking hell, Scribe," shouted Roe, "we don't even know why they want him."

"Do you think Elder Rothchild wanted this…thing?" Asked Actaeon as he took a step forward, "I wanted him, because I knew there was something."

"Funny, I thought you were dead," said Harkness with a wide smile, "last time we scuffled anyway."

"You hid that message from the Commonwealth," stated Actaeon as he moved forward, "now why did you attack me and run after I confronted you."

"Expected me to attack you and stay?" Laughed Harkness as he crossed his arms, he looked at the plasma pistol.

Another shot rang out and hit the plasma pistol, damaging it and sending it flying, "I think you should answer him, friend," offered J.R.

Harkness chewed the side of his cheek to pretend his humanity through quirks, "I ran away from the Commonwealth a few years back, they'd still want to get their hands on me."

"No, there is more to it than that," said J.R. as he leaned forward, "my partner and I saw you in the Megaton Clinic with that…liquid coming out of your side."

"The human body has many amazing parts to it," commented Harkness, "perhaps I'll show you yours one day."

"Enough of the big guy talk, give some straight answers," said J.R. as puffed away on the cigarette.

"Look, if I'm anywhere near the Commonwealth, I'll be put back into slavery," said Harkness seriously, "so I rather not go anywhere near the Brotherhood of Steel, thank you."

"The Commonwealth uses slave labor," asked Roe, curiosity in his voice, "they impress humans into forced labor?"

Harkness mumbled something and J.R. leaned forward, "speak up for the whole class please."

"No, not humans," answered John Harkness, his face unreadable.

"Wait, so what does that make you," asked Roe, as he leaned in to the table more.

"An android," said Scribe Actaeon as he took his hood off for the first time in weeks.

The firefight in Megaton, what some of the locals were calling the Chaos of 2279, had ended. The final body toll for the Megaton guards stood at twelve men dead and three permanently handicapped. The search parties that looked for the Outcast patrol only came up with a six foot hole blown into the side of a wall that lead to the outside. Of his living men, Moriarty stationed five at that one unprotected entrance until he could get it repaired. To make matters worse, several of his guards reported that the ghouls at Mister Crowley's Games and Cards threw out all the guards he had there for protection, declaring themselves outside of Moriarty's grasp.

Moriarty was furious at losing the Casino and the violence that occurred in his town. What aggravated him the most directly was getting his suit ruined by human shit. He had taken three warm water baths by the time Jericho returned with the Tenpenny caravan. Wearing the clothes that were more comfortable to him though didn't reflect his perceived status. Jericho walked into the Saloon with the two men from Tenpenny Tower, one was familiar to Moriarty as Mister Burke and the other was introduced as Anthony Ling.

"Boss, I don't know if it's my place to tell you, but you smell like…" Jericho was saying but Moriarty interrupted him.

"If yeh fuckin' say I smell like shite, I'll shoot yah 'n da gob," said Moriarty as he took out his ten millimeter pistol.

"But he is quite right in that you do smell rather ripe," said Anthony Ling in his haughty voice with a smug smile.

Moriarty began to laugh, Jericho joining him hesitantly, the mayor of Megaton than draw his gun to Lings head and fired the gun. One shot, the bullet entering right under Anthony Ling's right eye and exploding the back of his head. Ling's body didn't know he was dead and remained standing for a second, allowing the right eye ball to roll up an expose the white sclera as the iris and pupil turned to the back of the head. He fell to the ground, allowing the blood to pool out from his head. Nova let out a scream as some of the patrons ducked in fear after the events that occurred from the day.

"Shut yah mouth, whore," ordered Colin Moriarty as he turned to the ghoul bar tender, "and clean dat mess up, shuffles, and no eatin' his brain."

Gob just grumbled and went to grab the mop and bucket, "I think his wife would prefer me to take his body home, though I would not appreciate the smell," said Mister Burke as he cleaned the blood from his glasses.

"We'll take care of it," answered Jericho.

"Yeh can hardly take care o' anythin'," growled out Moriarty, "of all days I could have gotten by witout yeh, but da one day I need'd yah. Fuck all."

"Mayor, I was out collecting these…well, Mister Burke from the caravan," rationalized Jericho.

"Speakin' o' wich," Moriarty turned to Burke and eyed him up and down as he took a shot of whiskey, "what business did your talons have in me town."

"Mayor Moriarty, there should have been no members of Talon Company in your town," said Burke as he flattened the front of his suit, "and while I'm flattered you think Mister Tenpenny owns all of Talon Company, he hasn't decided to purchase them outright…yet."

"Don't take da piss from me, Burke, one of your men started the shootin' and tackled me ta the ground s' as to protect me from an oncomin' salvo," said Moriarty as he tapped the table with one finger, "I saw his white claw, it'was one o' your talon buggers."

All Mister Burke could say to the accusation was, "hmmm."

"Fuck all," breathed Moriarty as he took a sip from his whiskey again, "I want yeh tah take that fuck back to Tenpenny as message, yah get me?"

"Anything you'd want me to do," asked Jericho, hoping for the answer to be no.

Moriarty pulled on his whiskers while breathing in and out the aroma of a shot of whiskey, "Jericho, I want yeh tah get me mah boy," he took the shot and slammed it down on the table.

A/N: The translation for my bad attempt at phonetic mandarin is "Daan, how are you?" and the reply was "Leave me alone, Franklin." I hope you all enjoyed this latest installment. Please read and review, I accept private messages as well. This chapter has not been peer or beta read for mistakes.


	7. Jesters and Gestures of Court

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 7.) Jesters and Gestures of Court

One day had passed since the Chaos of Megaton occurred, news of a three-way fight between Moriarty's guards, the Outcast, and supposedly Talon Company had traveled all the way to Galaxy News Radio. The radio was turned in to GNR at the Sewer Way-station; the ghouls seemed to like the programs and music put out by the eccentric disc jockey. The humans, three of whom were Operatives in the Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services, one a Scribe or ill standing and the final individual was a seasoned bounty hunter. The android that referred to himself as John Harkness was secured to the corner by chains and several improvised explosive devices. Zachary Zimm, Colin Moriarty Junior, and Scribe Actaeon were in a heated conversation. The bounty hunter, Samuel Warrick, kept eyeing the robot from the concrete wall he was leaning on, Operative Daniel Roe was writing in a small notebook, constantly erasing and scrawling.

"I jus' dun like it," said Warrick as he brushed his greasy sun kissed hair back, running his hand over his leather middle age skin, "they can look like us, talk like us, but they jus' machines."

Chewing on his pencil tip, "Mister Warrick, we discussed the situation and you know you can't discuss it with anyone else. Please, just drop it."

"What's git your undies in a bind," asked the bounty hunter as he crossed his arms.

"That's for me and my…friends," Roe and the others found it easy, after some really smart lying, to dissuade the ghouls and Warrick from thinking they were members of the Brotherhood of Steel; with the idea that the Brotherhood had hired them because of their own xenophobia.

Scribe Actaeon's cover as a member of the Brotherhood of Steel was out in the open, much to the chagrin of Samuel, "chu mean the other mercs or tah Brotherhood kid that's been wit me?"

"He has that effect on people," replied Roe as he sighed and put the pencil and notebook away, he walked to the small group of humans arguing.

"No, until I see orders from either Yearling or Bael," Colin Moriarty Junior, known to everyone else as J.R., said as he held an open hand with the palm facing Actaeon at shoulder level.

"I have orders from Rothchild, mine supersede yours as he is acting Elder," Actaeon had moved forward and poked his finger into the chest of J.R. as he looked him up and down with a sneer, "you're nothing but the errand boy for Paladin not worthy of promotion."

"That is our senior officer you are speaking of," warned Zimm as J.R. hit the Scribe's arm away.

"Looks like my timing couldn't be better," said Roe as he edged between Actaeon and J.R., "making friends, I see? Well, here's another problem, I need to leave today if I'm to make it to north of Canterbury Commons."

"Fuck me," sighed J.R. under his breath as he grabbed Daniel Roe by the shoulders, "Dan, I don't want to give into this guy, but you can't remove the man power we need to keep this guy. Eleven men can keep an eye on him, but four men he can get passed. I won't have any leverage to keep him here."

"I have to do this, J.R.," nodded Roe as he could see Actaeon trying to listen in, "his slaver _buddy_ made it a deal that you can't really back out of… and…"

"And what, Dan," J.R. hands squeezed against Roe's shoulders, Zimm wasn't the only one that knew about their fellow Operatives little problem.

"It's nothing, really," answered Roe with a half brained smile, J.R.'s grip tightened, "okay, I've run a line of credit at Crowley's. I need to pay it off, including the mercenaries, and this job will pay."

J.R. let go and turned away from the group and walked to paces to the right and then to the left before he returned bringing Roe with him, "did you know of this," J.R. asked Zimm.

"Know of what?" The Operative adjusted the bandage on his wounded cheek.

"Scribe," J.R. was thinking of something to say but all words failed him, "Dan, see to your…commitments."

"What's going on," Zimm's eyes narrowed as he looked between Actaeon and Roe.

"I need to get going with the gho…with the mercs," answered Dan, "I've run the numbers a few times and to get north of Canterbury Commons I need to leave by today. I was contracted, our mercenary group that is, for a mission near the Republic."

Zimm quickly put two and two together, "so what of the android?"

"That's for you four to decide," answered Roe as he gave a hand signal to the ghoul guards from Crowley to pack up, "I, on the other hand, need to get moving."

"Would anyone like to listen to my idea?" Offered Harkness from the seat he was secured to.

"No," replied the Operatives and the Scribe together.

Daniel Roe walked over to the ghouls, the six irradiated beings were packing up slowly but their attention was still on the radio. The Operative began to pack up a small rucksack as well. The ghoul with a full white mustache that hung a little under his top lip, along with the patchy white hair over what remained of his skin on his head, acted as the voice for the group. His knowledge of mandarin helped with communicating to everyone on the team, especially the Operative. Likewise, he seemed to know a fair amount on tactics which was a surprise for the Brotherhood of Steel member.

"Franklin," Roe got the attention of the ghoul with the white mustache, "what were you before the bombs fell?"

"Dunno," replied the ghoul as he synched his rucksack and put the strap over his shoulders.

"C'mon, I'm interested in your story," said Roe as he finished packing what little he took with him to the Way-station.

"No story to tell," answered Franklin with a shrug, "everyone knows the story."

"What do you mean?" Roe was slightly confused.

"Bombs fell, irradiated the world, and a few of us were caught between," Franklin deadpanned as though a life over two hundred years was nothing.

"How…humble of you," said Roe as one of the former Chinese infiltrators turned ghoul said something in mandarin that Dan didn't understand.

"Zhao is wondering if we can take the radio," explained Franklin.

"He can understand English," asked the Operative in surprise.

"In two hundred years you can learn many things, including foreign languages," said the ghoul with a mustache, a near repeat of what he said before their operation in Megaton, "but nationalists prefer to speak in their native tongue."

Roe nodded and turned to the Chinese ghoul, Zhao, and said, "sure take the radio, we could use it when we make camp."

The Chinese ghouls all cracked wide painful smiles, the other two ghouls were also happy at the decision, except for Franklin, "might be dangerous to have a radio playing out there."

"Let the gho…the men…have their entertainment," said Roe as he shook his head, "Franklin, I really want to hear your story."

The ghoul just shrugged as Roe took out a map of the Capital Wasteland and talked over routes with all the ghouls. Warrick was doing his own thinking, having overheard some of the conversation between the Operatives and the Scribe. What he could glean was that there was a job and caps to be made. On top of that, there would be fewer men to keep watch on the android making escape easier. Escape could mean several of those watching wouldn't be around to chase after the machine, like Scribe Actaeon had. Samuel Warrick had sidled up the Scribe's side.

"What's this job in the north, hood," asked the bounty hunter with a smile that betrayed his less than perfect yellowing teeth.

"You're friend, Carolina Red, hired these mercenaries for a job," replied the Scribe as he couldn't help but look at Warrick's teeth, "perhaps she'll have a job for you too."

"Perhaps, hood, can't say it's been a good run wit yah," replied the middle age bounty hunter, "but it sure as hell been something."

All the Scribe could do was grunt his agreement, remember the body he had to drag to Evergreen Mills. The Bounty Hunter gathered his weaponry and walked up to Roe while holding his hat. Looking up and down the boy as he brushed his leather brimmed hat and then put it on his head. Licking his upper teeth with his tongue Warrick checked his pocket and found some tobacco chew to stuff in his lower lip. The Operative took notice of the man and final spoke up.

"Yes, bounty hunter," asked Dan with his best attempt at an even voice, Franklin was talking with the Chinese ghoul that had been shot.

"I think it might be a good idea tah travel wit you to the north," said Warrick as he let the tobacco juice pool in his jowls, "would be…what's that term, mutually beneficial fah both of us."

"I'm waiting to see how that can be possible," said Roe as he kept an eye on Franklin and Daan.

"You need to be there in seven days, yah," inquired Sam, Dan nodded, "I can git yah there in five days."

"I have no caps to pay you," answered the Operative.

"I'll be fine with that," answered Warrick thinking of the job that Carolina might have for him in the north.

"My men don't seem to like you too much since you put a bullet through one of them," Roe could see Franklin and Daan struggling.

"I'll keep meh hands an' bullets to myself," promised Warrick with a smile, "your pet ghouls won't be harmed."

"They're on loan to me from their employer, hardly pets," said Roe as he doubled checked everyone was ready, "the other rule I'll have is that you treat them all with respect, myself included."

Warrick nodded his agreement. The six ghouls, the Operative and the Bounty Hunter left the Sewer Way-station. They began their long journey to the north of Canterbury Commons. The ghoul named Zhao had the radio on in his rucksack allowing for them to listen to music on their journey. The weather was changing, the wasteland was still hot and dry in the direct sun light with little precipitation outside of the ruins but the winds had speed up and turned colder. Each individual, man and ghoul held to their clothes and coats tighter for warmth and to keep the wind and shifting sand away from their flesh. The three men and android left in the Sewer Way-station were still at odds, but all knew a decision needed to be made and soon.

The saloon at Grayditch, like much of the city, was still changing through the boom. Originally nameless, the owners had come upon a name for the dimly lit drinking hole that was raking in the caps. An educated traveler, for the wasteland, showed them a scavenged book of quotes from the Founding Fathers, with a mention of God's love and the existence of beer. Benjamin's Respite was named for the statesmen Benjamin Franklin, a prolific brewer, inventor and writer, who had a divine love for beer. As most wastelanders did not know or care who Benjamin Franklin was, the more familiar first name was chosen. People took to the name and even began to refer to the owners as the Benjamins.

The only one of the Brotherhood to seem and enjoy the spot was Star Paladin Cristano Bael, who regularly visited the spot but avoided wearing his power armor there as it attracted too much attention. Instead, he opted for a simple suit while being well armed in case of attack. His attention was drawn to the simple stage that the overflow of caps had erected, along with the singer the overflow had allowed to employ. She was black, curvaceous, with short cut black hair and stuffed in a tight dress that showed off her breasts, hips, and legs. She was singing a song, something that seemed similar to Bael, yet was enticing all the same to his ears and male senses.

Her sultry voice sang in a projection to the whole bar, "Birds do it, dogs do it, even some bloatflies do it. Let's do it, let's fall in love. In Tenpenny, the best upper class do it. Megatons and Brotherhood Brass do it. Let's do it, let's fall in love."

Bael's attention was on her, the sultry singer, though he caught the sight of maroon robes in his peripheral vision. He was smiling at the singer, seldom people found the Star Paladin smiling. She winked at him in return, showing her naturally long eye lashes in the process. Cristano gave a small wave and his smile grew a little wider. Scribe Elizabeth Jameson was now sitting at his table and he turned his attention to her.

"Seeing you smile, especially over a wastelander is…refreshing," said the scribe as she had a confident smile plastered on her face.

Bael's demeanor changed, his smile faded as his eyes were on Jameson, "come to gloat or to ask for help, Jameson."

"A bit of both," said the Scribe as she caught a verse of the lyrics, "does that really pass for music these days?"

"It invokes something…" began Bael as Jameson butted in.

"Carnal," she said with disdain at the lyrics' reference to lust and sex.

"In a word, yes." Bael opened his suit pocket and removed the unsealed official order from the desk of acting Elder Rothchild and threw it on the table, "did you really have to go behind my back?"

"Mendel said you were not listening to reason, and if they have the medical skill available we should seek the recovery of Elder Lyons," offered Jameson peaceably, "yes, even for former Enclave."

"This is a big risk, I hope you can see that," said Bael with a low growl.

"I've also made arrangements for Lesko to be moved with Elder Lyons," Jameson was playing with the used shot glasses on the table and arranging them, "I want all work to be done on Lesko before the Elder is put through anything."

The Star Paladin gave half of a laugh, "how terribly calculating of you."

"At worst, a man that doesn't look to be waking up anytime soon will be put out of his misery and I'll have to get Operative Pop off a murder rap," said Elizabeth, no true smile on her face, "at best we have two able minded and bodied men saved from the brink of death."

"And what would you want from me, Future Head Scribe Jameson," said Bael sarcastically, "seems you have all your ducks in a row right now."

"I need someone to oversee security for the transfer to the vertibird," she replied with a scowl.

"I'll see what I can do," he answered as he took a sip from his glass, "but I won't be able to spare men on the vertibird itself."

The sultry voiced woman sauntered over to Bael's table, "I'll leave you to it, Star Paladin," said Jameson as she left the table and the saloon.

Bael's mood completely changed as he looked the singer up and down, "your voice is phenomenal, what do they call you?"

"Thank you, I've seen you here a few times," admitted the singer as she held out her hand to the Star Paladin, "they call me Venus."

"How appropriate," commented Cristano Bael as he held and kissed her offered hand to him, "they say the most beautiful women represent the Venus of antiquity, a beauty for all the ages."

"You have different way with words," commented the singer as she pulled a chair to sit close with the Star Paladin, "where do you come from?"

"I hail from the State of Maxson on the West Coast," answered Bael as he held her hand still and she sat down crossing her legs and rubbing her foot up and down his calf and thigh.

"I've always heard good things about the West Coast," Venus purred in a stifling voice that excited a beast within Bael, "perhaps I'll head out that way sometime."

"Sometimes you just have to do it," Bael said this as a fire grew behind his eyes.

"I agree," Venus leaned in and handed a key to the Star Paladin, "Let's do it."

At the Cliff-top Shacks, the Centurion patrol had remained. Paladin Bruce was airlifted to receive emergency medical treatment back at the Citadel. Knight Jamie Bors and Operative Quintus Schieber were not able to fly in the vertibird with him because the response medical team of Scribes took up too much space. Instead they had remained with the patrol that was assisting those that lived in the small settlement. However, unlike the assistance Lyons' Pride gave to Friendship Heights in the north D.C. Ruins, Tristan's Centurions took a more hands off approach.

Heavy weapons specialist Murphy was sitting around the camp fire with the sniper Sparrow, both of them huddled around a suspended pot with pork and beans heating up. Tristan was on a ham radio he was able to gain from the settlement to contact the train tunnel base. The residents of the Cliff-top Shacks were either watching them or moving to dispose of super mutant bodies and gore bags. Many of them had been killed before the patrol arrived; the only whole body left for burial was that of the man Schieber was unable to save. Pessimism had taken over the small town and even ceremonies like those burials were now dumping human remains along with super mutant remains over the cliff-top into the valley pass.

Bors and Schieber were going over the intelligence on the super mutant Durmmond. They had attempted to talk with the locals, but most refused to talk with them because of association with the Centurions. Sentinel Tristan's action at a place named Dickerson seemed, to Schieber and Bors, to haunt the squad's presence in the northern region. The Operatives found it hard to do their job of appealing to the local population, the Centurions were no Lyons' Pride and the locals were afraid of the Brotherhood presence.

The two greatest results from the patrol had been the removal of the super mutants and gaining their weaponry. The defenses erected by the super mutants were helpful but the patrol blew passed them like any trained force would be able too. The Centurions repaired one minigun from the two that were dropped by mutants, and now held by Murphy. Cliff-top residents now had five hunting rifles with a small amount of bullets to use with little training on the rifles. The Centurions were not assisting in training, or talking about settlement needs, they were planning to move out and scout the parameter of the Old Olney ruins.

Three red painted power armored soldiers and robobrain slowly walked into the settlement, the locals seemed to appreciate them more than the Centurions, "well looky here, team, some of our Brothers are in town."

Murphy and Sparrow stood up from their sitting position slowly, Tristan's attention was on the painted Enclave armor these Outcasts wore, "does that power armor still smell bad from the dead man you stole it off of? Or is that just your own smell."

"Sentinel Tristan, so I've heard, being a lap dog for Lyons seems to have paid off," rejoined the Outcast leader as he turned his head back to his squad.

"Since when do Outcasts visit settlements," growled out Tristan.

"The locals here scavenge like others, but we don't have to threaten them to turn over the redeemable pieces of technology," said the Outcast squad leader.

"Casdin now relying on locals, how the mighty have fallen," sneered the Sentinel.

The Outcasts didn't betray any emotion, the squad leader just lifted his arm up and pointed forward and they began to walk out of the Cliff-top Shacks. Some of the locals gave small waves to the Outcast squad, the Brotherhood of Steel members just watched. One of the Outcasts tipped the boiling pot of pork and beans and spilt some on the fire. The snickers and laughter through the power helmets let the Brotherhood know it was intentional.

"Friendly neighborhood," commented Schieber just loud enough for Bors to hear.

"We're going to head out some time soon, we're going to need to keep an eye on those jerks," Bors ordered as an operation parameter.

"Gear up, Centurions, we're moving out in five," ordered Tristan, the anger in his voice audible through his power helmet.

"Sentinel, we just got the slop to the right heat," said Murphy as he stirred what remained of the pork and beans.

"Take the pot with us, eat on the go," said the Sentinel as he pushed Murphy's and Sparrow's helmet to them.

Tristan's Centurions, the Operatives and their support robot named Trip were making their way to the parameter of Old Olney. Knowing the presence of deathclaws was inevitable, Sentinel Tristan made sure to travel on the southern ridge between the nearby Vault and the old Maryland town as the wind was blowing south by south-west. The smell of pork and beans, while the food had been finished hours ago, would be easily picked up by the enhanced sense of smell possessed by deathclaws. Trip had also done some advanced scanning to relay some information to the Operatives, and they were heading in the direction of a significant energy source.

The bright vertical lights indicated that the technology was Enclave in origin, namely from a communication tower for an outpost. They remained in strict radio silence as they approached the outpost. Trip reported that there were no life forms, nor operational turrets or robots. Moving into the outpost, they saw no bodies of Enclave soldiers. There was a Pre-War eighteen wheel truck along with small generator hooked up to the communication tower and terminal. Schieber walked over to the terminal and double checked it for bobby traps before his sat down and began to type. Bors maintained position near the terminal as the Centurions scouted the camp.

"Tristan, I found something," called out Murphy as he dropped the clothe divide from the back of the eighteen wheeler.

Tristan checked the back and saw several burned bodies, but what was clear was their simple dress and varying age from babes to seniors, "bastards, this was an extermination site."

Schieber was reading the logs and became disgusted at the detail the Enclave officer kept on those wasterlanders rounded up and murdered, "this…this is a shameful act. How could they do this?"

"It's why they needed to be stopped," said Bors as he shook his head.

"We should salvage what we can," said Tristan as he whipped his hands together.

Sparrow walked to the terminal and tossed a piece of power armor chest plate onto the table next to the terminal, "energy weapon fire, there were tons of pieces, maybe three suits worth."

Sentinel Tristan ran his fingers down the three deep cut laser groves before saying, "kill them but don't take the armor?"

"Perhaps it wasn't about the armor," said Bors before he turned to the sniper, "absolutely no bodies?"

"No bodies, heck there was no blood," Sparrow recounted the sight from a few feet out, "and those laser wounds wouldn't kill, just hurt like hell. See how it's leading to the right; see the wear mark where the shoulder will be? This Enclave held his weapon to the right."

"What are you saying, Sparrow," Murphy held the armor plate to eye level.

"That these were shots to disarm, not kill," the sniper said as she touched the bulge of armor on her helmet where her nose was located.

There was a long pause before the Sentinel gave orders, "mark the location, Sparrow, we'll double back after Olney to take what we can from here. We'll need to get over that ridge."

They climbed the ridge higher to see the ruins of the old Maryland town. Sparrow had placed the beacon under the eighteen wheeler because the vehicle was stationary. Schieber copied the data from the Enclave terminal onto a blank holodisk and took it with him. The view of Old Olney from the southern ridge was something to behold. Shells of old buildings and the remains of the old world stood in the midst of barren wasteland. This wasteland oasis to salvagers and settlement builders was a deathtrap due to the deathclaws. Many had been culled by the Lone Wanderer, but there were no reports of the den mother or alpha male being killed, reproduction continued.

The deathclaws that surrounded the ruins were younger, half the size of a fully grown male. The Centurions and Operatives watched and marked the movement of the deathclaws behind the walls and outside the ruins. Red beams and green plasma pinches erupted from the lower left corner closest to the southern ridge. Tristan pointed to the lower corner and Sparrow pointed her scope to the energy weapons.

"It's the Outcast patrol, they have five of the young deathclaws on their position," answered Sparrow waiting for orders.

"Take out as many of those abominations as possible," said Tristan as he slapped Murphy on the shoulder and turned back to the Operatives, "they may be Outcasts, by they were once brothers, I don't expect you to understand."

Schieber sighed, being a local in the Brotherhood was tough enough, but Tristan hit directly at the issue of still being fresh. All he and Bors did was following Tristan as he slide and ran down the ridge. Trip remained as cover for the sniper, per Bors orders. Murphy used the minigun to lay down the limited five millimeter ammo to allow the Outcasts to regroup. The attack from the flank blindsided the deathclaws and split their attention between those in red painted power armor and those with mismatched power armor. There was a small explosion as the robobrain was slashed with a claw and the cylindrical body turned and spewed sparks.

The combined fire of three Outcasts and five Brotherhood of Steel members dispatched the deathclaws. The combat lasted a total of three minutes, but much damage had been done during that time. The leader of the Outcast squad looked at Tristan and nodded. One of the Outcasts walked over to the robobrain, checked the chassis and then removed the brain from the robot. There was one Outcast on the ground, holding his lower back. One of the squad turned him over on their front to check the wound.

The four jagged upward claw strokes went up his lower to mid back with lots of blood pooling at the open wounds. The solider tapped his comrade's head and turned to the squad leader and shook his head. Schieber checked his compartment and offered a syringe of med-x, one of the Outcasts nodded and took the painkiller and applied the medication. The Brotherhood decided to let the Outcasts have their last moments with their squad member as he slowly passed away and walked from the battle scene. The Outcasts watched the Brotherhood returned to the height of the south ridge, no word shared between the whole battle and afterword.

"Operative Bors, Operative Schieber, there is a radio signal on band twenty-three A," Trip reported to the two through the internal communications unit, "radio transmission is not digital, analog signal strength is not decipherable at this range. Stronger heading can be found to north-east."

Jamie Bors looked at Quin Schieber, "another day, another dollar."

Ambassador George Schultz and Elder Reginald Rothchild, the acting leader of the Brotherhood of Steel, were meeting for the second time. Their first discussion between them was a brief walk to the gates of the Citadel, a place off limits to non-Brotherhood of Steel personal. It was a brief introduction and Ambassador Schultz formally handing over his papers. Rothchild had examined them extensively, but the document itself offered little information but that his formal education was received at the Institute. The Institute was a prestigious university that had educated such great Pre-War individuals as Robert Edwin House, Senator Todd Peterson and Richard P. Feynman. This Shultz was in good company if the Institute accepted him as an alumnus.

Elder Rothchild walked into a crude tent by pulling aside a flap, he brought two Knights for protection on the urging of Scribe Yearling but refused them to enter the Ambassador's tent. Wearing a dark blue three piece suit with a pink tie and handkerchief, he was calm and standing next to a black wooden cabinet. The tent served as the Commonwealth Ambassador's temporary office, most personal effects from the _Law & Order_ had not been removed as of yet because not all necessary supplies for housing, foodstuffs, and personnel had left the ship. Apparently the Ambassador had some sway to get his personal stock of alcohol removed from the ship.

"Care for a drink, Elder Rothchild," asked Schultz as he opened the cabinet doors to show the stock of bottles and labels that the Reginald had never seen before.

"I'd like to keep a clear head when meeting people for the first time," Rothchild held the back of his chair, "do you mind? My legs are not that of a younger man."

"I know how you feel, Elder, my legs have seen better days as well," Schultz had poured himself a small drink as he sat in the chair next to Rothchild instead of behind the desk, "I hope you don't mind if I drink, I'm still getting used to dry land."

"Of course, you were on the water for a long time," the acting Elder smiled.

"It's hard to believe that the first part of journey is truly over," Schultz was talking into his glass, "it has been a long time since we left. But to be in the capitol of the former greatest country in the history of the world is utterly amazing. The fact that anything survives the war is amazing."

"So is a pilgrimage the only intention of the Commonwealth," asked Rothchild as he interlocked his fingers with his index fingers outstretched and touching.

"Well, the many nations in the Commonwealth have made plans for this pilgrimage," replied the Ambassador, "but the Commonwealth itself has seen to open a hopefully friendly diplomatic channel with the residents of the area. As luck would have it, an organized government is here to make such diplomatic relations easier."

"The Brotherhood of Steel is flattered by your statements, Ambassador," Rothchild made certain to choose his words carefully, "we are the protective arm for those residents in the former Columbia Commonwealth, but we are hardly the ruling body. Each settlement has law within itself."

"As it is with the four nations of the Commonwealth," rejoined George Shultz, "we had all worked together because of our relative closeness, but the signing of the Treaty for the Common Good and Health of Nations of 2274 finally brought it all together."

"The Commonwealth is that young?" Rothchild was slightly at ease knowing the Citadel had been around longer in its modern form than this northeast government.

"No, there is a lot of age to the Commonwealth. New Cambridge has been around since 2097, my alma mater, the Institute has existed since before the Great War," Schultz presented his response in a way that wasn't defensive, "but even the youngest nation of the Commonwealth is around sixty years in existence."

"I haven't met all the representatives from the Commonwealth nations," admitted Rothchild, in fact he'd only met the three men that embarked from _Law & Order_.

"The delegation from Brandia, it's a Kingdom to the west of New Cambridge, would be the second most important after myself," said Schultz as he poured another glass for himself, "you had the _honor_ of meeting the Prime Advisor, Charles Everidge, Lord of Brighton; but the Prince of Brandia has accompanied us on the pilgrimage and a very interesting young man. Perhaps the Prime Advisor will _allow_ you the honor to meet him."

"You do not think highly of Mister Everidge," stated Rothchild as he picked up on the slight of voice from the Ambassador.

"It is nothing, truly, but experience and skill will always win, do you agree?" Schultz sipped his drink as Rothchild gave a small nod, "the Plymouth Aristocracy has a delegation led by a doctor named Degory Bartlett. Oh, he's a doctor of history, not medicine; which is still odd for the nobles to elect as their delegation head, but I've found him to be quite…entertaining in a bookish sort of way. Then there are the delegates form the Vineyard Republic, it's a small collection of islands just off the coast from the Plymouth Aristocracy. We've provided an interpreter for them so they can better communicate with everyone."

"They do not speak English?" The Elder had not heard of any survivors from the post-war United States not speaking English.

Goerge Schultz had a pained look on his face, "they don't really speak or hear," he said as he liked his lips, "the problem was that after the Great War transportation broke down and the islands that made up the Vineyard Republic were left onto themselves. The population was small and the gene pool didn't have a lot available, so some things like deafness, dumbness, even colorblindness became the majority in the growing population. They developed a way to communicate and share ideas with hand gestures that is why the Commonwealth thought having a translator would be appropriate."

_Arguments must be exciting with representatives from the Vineyard Republic_, thought the Elder as he sat back on the chair and listened to the Ambassador continue to talk, "I guess that leaves Providence Plantations, the bread basket of the Commonwealth. Their delegation is the smallest but they make up for size with a large voice. The delegation is but three individuals, Misters Roger Gaspee and West Slater, and the wife of the Governor, Isabella Constantino."

"The Governor's wife without the Governor?" The Elder mused slightly.

"Isabella has come along for the pilgrimage," Schultz commented under his breath, "besides other things."

Rothchild checked his wrist watch, "and so the Commonwealth comes here for a pilgrimage, among other things I'm certain."

"This is a time for peace and prosperity for the Commonwealth," answered Schultz as he put the glass down, "our economy has a surplus, academic breakthroughs are being made, public opinion of the government is high, and our most dangerous enemy has been beaten back outside of our borders."

"Which dangerous enemy would that be," asked Rothchild as he leaned forward in keen interest.

"A remnant from the old world, they called themselves the Enclave, led by a President Henry Eden," answered Schultz as he noted the Elder's interest, "but his voice stopped broadcasting two years ago, when we won a major battle and then the war."

"I think we'll have plenty to discuss on the Enclave, Ambassador," Elder Rothchild stood up, slightly shocked by this new information on the wider reach of the disposed President Henry Eden, "but I must return to the Citadel."

"Pardon me, I feel I've talked too much and you've hardly told me anything," apologized Schultz.

Elder Rothchild held up his hands in forgiveness and shook the Ambassadors hand with both of his, "we'll have plenty of time for that to occur, but I must get back to running this organization."

"I'd love to very much have a tour of this Citadel of yours," said Schultz as half an inquiry.

"I'll look into it," Elder Rothchild fobbed off the question as he made his exit.

Scribe Janice Yearling was visiting the Alexandria to check in with Knight Captain Galeas while also trying to keep track several of her projects. The former pre-War hotel that now served as the base of operations for BIOS was clean and well taken care of by the servant staff. While there had been trouble of late, Yearling was able to convince Bael to her line of thought. She held her hands behind her back as her and Galeas, who was dressed down in fatigues, walked the hallways to check on the buildings progress.

"The whiteness of the hallway, is that the original plaster?" Asked Yearling as she stared at the cleanly scrubbed wall.

"Actually the walls we've found to be white granite," answered Galeas, "and that the floors are marble, after we stripped away a lot of the excess that had been built up on it. Austerity seems to be the best for the Alexandria."

"Efficient and effective, Knight Captain," agreed Scribe Yearling, "and how did our little test go?"

"Remarkably well, not a trace was left," Galeas continued to walk with Yearling, "no mess or usable tool was seen. I believe Elias told them that she escaped after a crafty plan."

"LaCroix will prove well when it comes to wet work," agreed Yearling as she inwardly smiled at herself, "I'll want you to help her train specifically for hand-to-hand and close-arms combat."

"I've been writing up a training course that would make Paladin Gunny jealous," said Galeas with a smile at the corner of her lips, "but why would we want our Operative so up close? Wouldn't a high caliber rifle do better?"

"Not many people have such weaponry," reasoned the Scribe as they reached her secured room, "but a knife up close or a silenced pistol would do wonders for wet operations not being traced to the Brotherhood."

"Perhaps demolition training will be good as well," offered the Knight Captain.

"Galeas, I'm beginning to think you fit well in this organization," commented Yearling as she unlocked her room and entered to gather her notes.

In the servant quarters, Operative Anna LaCroix was still crying into the shoulder of Elias, head of the servants. He had been consoling her since she was given orders she had to complete. Orders that, while Elias could understand to eliminate the possibility of rebellion, were odious in nature for one so young, vibrant and full of life. Elias' teachings were on creating culture, art, life and love. While a single order from the heads of the Brotherhood of Steel could deprive life not just the intended target but that of the one to complete the mission as well.

"Anna, we are always presented with choice," said Elias as he rubbed her back, "and our decisions shape our future, our future is ours to make."

"But didn't you…say the lord has a plan…for all of us?" Sobbed the Operative, "what…what plan could he…have for me."

"The Lord has foretold our destinies, but it is up to us to create it," answered Elias with a depressed smile.

"I wish Quin…was here," lamented LaCroix, "at least I'd have something…to do instead of…sob like a fool."

"You can't always run and hide," said Elias as he let go and moved to a pray mat, "but you can throw yourself into rituals. The adherence to rituals can calm the inner turmoil of the soul."

"What will calm my soul," asked LaCroix.

"Rendering a verse unto the Lord," answered Elias with the wisdom of a Holy man, "use this ritual daily and your soul will be at easy with your decisions and the Lord's forgiveness."

"I hope so, Elias," the Operative's demeanor was hesitant but hopeful; "I'll try anything…to get rid of this feeling."

Elias began his prays as he prostrated to onto his pray rug. Instead of saying a verse unto the lord as he had memorized in his youth, his one pray and thought turned to Anna. _May she find peace in what she has done_, he thought. Amending his wish to the lord, he added, _and may she find peace with what shall be asked of her in the future_. Next to him, the dark skinned and long curly haired young Operative was prostrate and praying, occasionally glancing at a book that held verses Elias and his people had uttered unto their lord.

Mister Burke was sitting in the anteroom of Moriarty's Saloon. The shit hole that was Megaton had hardly changed since the failed attempt of detonating the atomic weapon in the middle of town, in the opinion of Burke and Tenpenny. On the positive side, when the shit hole couldn't be destroyed, profit could be and was made on the den of uncivilized plebeians. Mister Burke adjusted his cuff and tried to flick some dirt off his cufflink. He kept his eyes open to take in the whole of the saloon, paying keen attention to Colin Moriarty.

Jericho walked into the bar and leaned in close to the Mayor's ear, "Susa wasn't able to find your son."

"What the fuck do I pay you idiots for," seethed the Irish bartender through his teeth.

"He searched high and low for the kid," under his breath the former raider muttered, "as much as Ashkelon or Crowley would allow."

Moriarty grabbed Jericho's lapels, "don't you utter the names of those treacherous bastards in front of a meh, again."

Jericho pushed the older Irishman off, clearly physically superior, "we get your work done, if the kid doesn't want to be found he won't."

_I lost him for ten years, I'm not going to let it be another ten_, thought Moriarty as he walked away from his Sheriff, "double the patrols, I want my lad found and in front of meh feet."

The Mayor of Megaton walked over to Mister Burke, "I hope you don't mind, but my partner is on ice in your walk-in. I figured you'd still want to talk business before I returned to Mister Tenpenny empty handed, except for the body of Mister Ling that is," said the shrewd man in the business suit with a silenced ten millimeter pistol.

Moriarty just looked the man up and down, thoughts running through his head, "there have been some…unfortunate events."

"Unfortunate in the sense of not making fortune or in the sense of squandering Mister Tenpenny's capital," the questioned was poised in a way as to not allow for any good answer.

"Unforeseeable, some of the businesses in Springvale have had…hiccoughs…in distributing taxes," admitted Moriarty as he played with his whiskers.

"That doesn't change the amount that was agreed upon by yourself, mayor, and Mister Tenpenny," Burke tapped his index finger to his lower lip, "perhaps you and I should go over these terms as they have been written down and I do happen to have a copy with me."

"I know the terms as well as anyone," Moriarty's fuse was getting shorting, "specifically the level of business that needs to be swung this way. An' unless we get more people to empty their pockets in my Saloon or whore house, then where do yah expect Tenpenny's share will come from?"

"Before you placed a bullet firmly in the brain stem of Mister Ling, the suggestion would have been to open a franchise of New Urban Apparel," the smug look Burke sickened Moriarty, "Megaton would have the ability to attempt _looking_ like civilized beings, with an exceedingly high tariff."

"A lease can always be arranged, don't let the business hinge upon one mortal life," the Irishman attempted to sweet talk Mister Burke.

"Undoubtedly, a lease and franchise can be arranged; however, the matter of operating the company would fall to Mister Tenpenny as he did lease the shoppe to the late Mister Ling," Mister Burke, the ever calculating man he was chose his words carefully, "but that does not add or take away from the flat rate of tax that needs to paid to Mister Tenpenny so as to recommend and advertise for Megaton and it's localities."

"Tenpenny will get his thirty pieces of silver," Moriarty used a pejorative saying he heard his father utter from time-to-time, _the lord of the tower may wear a nice suit, but he's just like any other raider_.

"Mister Tenpenny has received reports that chem sales have not been adequate as of late," Burke chewed his lips, "this Leo you've employed…"

"He's an utter fuck up, but I've got someone working with him," Moriarty said as he crossed his arms in front of her chest.

"How you make Mister Tenpenny's money is not my business, nor does Mister Tenpenny really care," answered Burke, his tongue cleaned his teeth, "just as long as he gets his money, Mister Tenpenny is happy, and by default I'm happy," Burke leaned into Moriarty, "we both know what happens when I'm not happy."

Moriarty nodded his understanding. Burke already had Simms' murder under his belt. He didn't want to add another town leader to the man's body count.

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were outside at the staging area for the Commonwealth nations. Tents were erected in circles around campfires. The underpass housed several members of security forces, naval personnel and a general eating area that could be shared. The machines were impressive, but the crew of the Commonwealth came with even more amazing items like livestock. Common animals like brahmin were expected, the Operatives were exposed to a plethora of beasts from the odd and scary shaped to the large and cute. A pre-fabricated pen had been erected for housing the animals close to the water's edge; Newton was petting an overgrown furry animal with long knobby knees and two horns.

"Aren't you a cute little guy," cooed Newton with a smile behind her power armor as she petted the animal under its long furry chin, "at least I think you're a guy."

"Hannah, just…be careful," Ban was nervous with the animals, "the Bighorners in the other pen don't look completely domesticated."

"But this little guy and his family seem to be perfectly well behaved," reasoned Newton as she continued to scratch the animals chin.

"Well, goats were domesticated before the Great War," said a voice as he walked up to Newton's side wearing a double breasted leather waist coat that was undone on the top three buttons to expose a frilly white shirt underneath and cuffs that frilled out from the sleeve of his leather jacket, "we've just found that two species have evolved since then. The bighorners in the pen your friend pointed out, which produce great meat, and the zargos that are these cute guys, which produce great dairy products."

Ban crutched his way up to the pen to better look at the man, "sir, you certainly have a lot of information."

"Please, let me introduce myself, I'm Louis," he shook Ban's hand as Newton removed her helmet and the man kissed her hand.

"I'm Knight Ban and this is Knight Newton," introduced the still wounded Knight.

"Sir Ban, Lady Newton, from all of Brandia, let me say it is a pleasure to meet you," Louis said with a heartfelt smile and a small bow.

The Operatives didn't know how to respond and just inclined their heads, "Mister Louis, people from Brandia emphasis titles a fair amount."

"The Kingdom of Brandia has a hundred and fifty year history of titles, order, and personal prestige," said Louis as he held his fingertips together on his right hand, the river breeze lightly blowing his finely combed long hair, "but as we are not in Ulsen Castle and relatively close to the hogs, please just refer to me as Louis."

"Well, Louis, you may call me Hannah," offered Newton as she blew a stray hair from her forehead.

"I am a guest within your land," Louis nodded and over turned his hand.

"I've traveled a fair amount, Louis, but those white and black things, I've never seen before," Michael Ban pointed to a pack of horse like creatures in another pen.

"In Brandia, we commonly refer to them as zorses, but that is a major misnomer," explained Louis, "after the Great War, animals from local zoos were essential at the mercy of local populations. Some people ate them, while others sought to utilize them for certain tasks. One such animal was the zebra, but domestication of the animal had not occurred any other time. The pulling of simple transports for short distances has been successful in the past. The Institute had looked into gene manipulation along with cloning, which led to the production of a more suitable domesticated animal for transportation and agrarian needs. The Altered Genetic Zebra has become, in common use, a zorse."

"This is all too…surreal," Newton was staring across the way at the black and white horse-esque creatures.

"Surreal as seeing a society of people in the Capitol of the former United States in full pre-War power armor," Louis smiled as Newton and Ban looked at each other, "let alone a fortified building known as the Citadel on the ruins of the former headquarters for the US Armed Forces. Or those alterations to the Jefferson Memorial?"

"It's the world we live in," Ban shrugged, trying not to show his offense at the statements.

"Truer words have never been said, Sir Ban," said Louis as he shook their hands again, "but to be alive one must be living. I must bid you both adieu, I hope to see you more now that we've met."

_Adieu? What does that even mean?_ Thought Ban as he shook the man's hand. He walked away to the camp of tents set up by the Kingdom of Brandia. Newton had turned her attention back to the zargo goat in front of her and petted it more. Another man approached the Operatives, deciding to not get between them but rest on the post of the pen next to them. Today he was wearing a simple shirt and vest, button up with a frill coming from his collar.

The Operatives and greeted Lord of Brighton, Charles Everidge formerly, "so what did you think," he asked with a smile not as sincere as Louis.

"Of what, the animals," asked Newton, "I'm still in awe of them. There is so much variety and usefulness."

"Thank you, Lady Newton, but I was referring to my Prince," Everidge said with a small laugh as Ban and Newton gave him an awkward gaze, "you were just talking with the First Prince of Brandia and Master of Ulsen Castle, Louis Brandian."

The Lord of Brighton gave a questioning look to the two Operatives who just stared at each other in shock.

A/N: Original lyrics of "Let's Do It, (Let's Fall In Love)," were written by Cole Porter in the musical _Paris_ in 1928 and has been redone by several artists including, but not limited to, the Dorsey Brothers, Eartha Kitt, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Alanis Morissette, and Diana Ross. This author prefers the Eartha Kitt version. As implied, there is a lot more to the Commonwealth than what was transmitted in the radio signal.

Please read and review.


	8. The Republic

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 8.) The Republic

Mayor Henry Fleet of Grayditch stood at a podium in the meeting hall now being used for the city gatherings. His shaggy hair was cleaner cut and uniformed in a side part, equally tidy was his clean suit. To his left sat Scribe Jameson and to his right sat Marshall Lawson and several members of the town council. The smile on his face did not reach his eyes, but the dim light of the town assembly room made the situation warmer.

"Citizens, visitors, and representatives from other towns, thank you for gathering here today for this important meeting and to share in making history for the Capital and the wonderful city of Grayditch. Since the special election that installed me to this prestigious office, the people of Grayditch have seen an increase in economy, in prestige, and leading the advancement of justice," pontificated the politician, "in three days' time another special election will be held in Grayditch. This time the election will be for the selection of five justices."

"The process for voting will be simple, all men and women over the age of sixteen and permanent residents of Grayditch will be allowed to vote. There are some twenty names that have been nominated and each voter will indicate their vote for up to three candidates from the list. These votes will be calculated, with the assistance of technology from the Brotherhood of Steel, to determine the top five elected candidates," Fleet's eyes flickered to Scribe Jameson, "to assists against fraud, all those that vote will be required to dip their left thumb in purple ink. One person will have one vote, just as it was two hundred years ago, it shall be so again."

There was a round of applause from those collected in the audience, "Mayor Fleet, Dennis LaCroix of the Grayditch Guardian," said the father of the BIOS Operative waiting for the applause to die down as he stood up.

"Dennis, we all know you and the wonderful newspaper you've started in this city," Henry Fleet gave a wide grin, "please, ask your question."

"Well, Mayor Fleet, what role will these justices play," asked the newspaper man, "are they just to be used for this upcoming trial."

"These justices will be elected for a five year term," said Fleet he leaned into the podium, "and they will be used to solve all the legal issues that we face daily. Civil and criminal issues, a like…"

Scribe Jameson checked her watch and smiled inwardly.

Outside of the Grayditch Clinic, at the crossroads of two streets, a vertibird idled as three members of the Brotherhood of Steel guarded the transport. One was Star Paladin Bael, the other two came from the security he had for the prisoners. Two gurneys were wheeled down the ramp of the hospital by four people in crimson robes of Brotherhood Scribes. The former Enclave doctor, Gordon Hopkins, watched from the top of the ramp as his patients were moved to a more technologically advanced clinic in one of the pre-War vaults.

As the gurneys were loaded up into the vertibird, Scribe Mendel walked over to Bael, "thank you for the security, Star Paladin," she said.

"Be thankful that the meeting was occurring now so nearly everybody was busy," said Bael as he holstered his weapon, "make sure he stays safe."

"Don't worry, it's barely a thirty minute romp over to vault hundred and one," said the Scribe, "they already have a retrieval team waiting."

"Georgina, you've gotten your way," stated Bael coldly, "don't fuck this up, you're in charge of the Elder's security. We should have devoted a whole team for this."

"Elder Rothchild doesn't think we have enough man power except for a few of us Scribes," Mendel gave a soured look as Bael coughed at the title she used for the acting Elder, "we're also on good terms with the vault because of your Operative."

"When you see him, tell him his reports are late," stated Bael as Mendel nodded and jumped into the back of the vertibird as the blades began to whirl for takeoff.

J.R. sat across from the android named John Harkness. He was smoking, like usual, inhaling the stale tobacco and letting it expel from his nose back into his mouth. Zimm was writing all that was said on the notepad for reference purposes. Scribe Actaeon was eyeing the android with hatred as he ran his hand of his chest plate where the new scar was located. Harkness found the situation humorous while endangering his immediate personal security.

"I'm going to ask this again, tell me what you know of the Commonwealth," J.R. tapped his cigarette to drop the ash in a tray, "be specific."

"What are you looking for, they're like any other government," said the android, "either pre-War or post-War. All unique for their time, but all of them are the same at the core."

"You know what we mean," said J.R. as he looked to his associates, "fine, what was your part in the Commonwealth."

"I began operation in 2242 under the designation 'A three – twenty – one' for the Synth Retention Bureau of the Commonwealth," said Harkness in a drone and monotone voice, "designation 'A three – twenty – one', my former existence, hunted down runaway synths for diagnostic, reformatting, and disposal," the blank look in their eyes made Harkness continue, "synths are synthetic humanoids, what I am. Synths are also slaves to Commonwealth minders from manual labor to…more exotic needs."

"So you used to hunt your own kind," asked J.R., slightly in shock.

"That was 'A three – twenty – one's base programming," replied the android, "self determination has altered that, even though it has taken me some time to…evolve… my base code.."

"How much time," J.R. tapped his cigarette again.

"Not the appropriate question," replied the former Rivet City security guard, "more appropriate would be how many did I hand in for diagnostic, reformatting, and disposal before I ran away myself."

"And how many was that?" J.R. looked over to Zimm as he wrote more.

"Two hundred and forty – three synthetic humanoids," replied Harkness as he tilted his head to the side, "I still think of them daily, dream of them as well."

"Androids have dreams?" Actaeon was curious.

"I do," replied Harkness with a frown, "but I doubt you'd believe me."

"How could you kill your own kind," J.R. tapped the ash from his cigarette again.

"The same way you can kill another human," quipped Harkness as his eyes shifted to the improvised explosives, "and you seem to have a talent for it, too. I was a hunter, gathering those that began to…think…on their own. Those I hunted always talked with me before I disabled them to bring in to the SRB. I don't know why 'A – three – twenty – one's code allowed for them to talk, but I listened and…it changed me."

"Machines don't write their own programing," Actaeon said with certainty as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Pre-War technology that the Brotherhood worships is not that advanced compared to Commonwealth technology," Harkness rolled his head, pretending there was a creak in his neck in a feign attempt at humanity, "the large artificial intelligence systems have been made smaller and mine was the most advanced in 2242. My A.I. core is an independent operating system with self-updating code, the best form of adaptive technology."

"The type of programing you speak of is impossible," the Scribe shook his head in disbelief.

The android sighed, "again, the Brotherhood obsesses on _pre – War _technology. If you don't believe it exists, than try talking with Pinkerton."

"Doctor Horace Pinkerton is dead," Actaeon was even more upset and wanted more than nothing to but a bullet into the android.

"He just prefers that everyone think that way," Harkness drawled as he turned his eyes to J.R., fed up with squabbling, "he's holed up in the broken off bow of Rivet City. The passcode to the locked door is Pinkerton-Edison-Archimedes. Bit of an egotist, don't you think?"

J.R. tried not to look impressed but saw his partner scribbled it all down, "we'll look into it, but there are more pressing matters in the meantime."

"What is to become of me," said Harkness with a frown on his face, "keeping me here forever doesn't suit either of us, I will try to escape and someone will get hurt. Trust me, I don't want to hurt anyone, not even you Scribe. This is all for self-preservation."

"Rothchild and the Brotherhood of Steel would like to go over you for certain," J.R. rubbed out his cigarette.

"The only reason you'd turn me over to them willingly is if you were one," Harkness' eyes squinted as he was able to read their biometric reactions, he scoffed out loud, "you have the walk of mercenaries, but your talk and act is all Brotherhood of Steel. Break out from Outcast control to be in the hands of the Brotherhood directly. Were you the guys the Outcasts kicked out of the clinic? You've got to be shitting me."

"You're more valuable to the Brotherhood right now," J.R. lit up another cigarette, as the Scribe kept his hand on his shotgun, "no one will hand you over to Commonwealth, especially not Zimm and I."

"You expect me to trust you at your word? You're Brotherhood of Steel, you drool at technology like me," the android shifted in his chair, "the only difference is that I am sentient."

"We're a different sought of Brotherhood," answered J.R. as he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head down at an angle, "we deal with what people know and how best to use it for the good of the whole Capitol. Seems that you know an awful lot, John Harkness, and I think we'd rather have you on our side."

"Talk about offering a job with a gun to my head," quipped the android as he lightly shook the tripwire but not enough to set the device off, "supposed I won't be paid much."

"We'd protect you from the reach of the Commonwealth," J.R. said as he blew out smoke, "it's the best offer you're going to get."

"I'd shake your hand," Harkness nodded to his bound state, "but will my word be enough?"

"Certainly," said J.R. as he clamped a hand on Zimm's shoulder, "I'm going to leave this with Zachary for right now, I need to go out and take a leak."

"Remember to shake twice," joked the android, "any more than that and it would be considered playing with yourself."

J.R. got up and walked out of the Way-station with Scribe Actaeon on his tail, "Rothchild is expecting that machine in the Citadel."

Outside in the sun, the dimly lit features of the two men sharpened in the bright light, "whether it's in the Citadel or the Alexandria, the Brotherhood of Steel will still have tabs on him."

"Tabs are not enough. We need tests, experiments, and results," the Scribe was angered, "I want to open his chest and see what makes him tick as much as my chest was opened because of what he did to me!"

J.R. unzipped himself and began to pass water on the side of the building, "so revenge is what all this is about, eh?"

"This is more than revenge, I need to get this…thing…for my own sake," Actaeon attempted to turn J.R. to face him.

J.R. urinated on his boots and that of the Scribe as he was turned, "what the fuck! Seriously, this is going to get sticky as hell."

"Take this seriously," the Scribe pressed, "I was charged with bringing that machine in to the Citadel. I will live up to my duty."

"Actaeon, don't fool yourself," J.R. frowned, "I've inquired about you, I got your dossier from Yearling and Bael. Rothchild sent you off on a fool's errand. After this you'll be either sent back to Rivet City or placed even farther away from the Citadel. Like Point Lookout."

"I have Elder Rothchild's word," Actaeon sounded like he was convincing himself more than J.R.

"The man is only Head Scribe, he is not an Elder yet," rejoined the Operative, "the Elder is still Owyn Lyons. You're self-worth is not determined by them, but by your own actions. Rothchild, Lyons, hell even Bael, see you as a self-serving prick. That's why they don't want you at the Citadel."

Actaeon held his finger up ready to fight but words failed him and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. J.R. brushed off his jacket and walked back inside the Way-station. Thoughts rushed through Actaeon's head and leaned his back against the wall. Sliding to the ground as angry tears went down his cheeks. Truth hurt the most when you ran away from it constantly.

The Cliff-top Shacks were two days behind Knight Jamie Bors and Operative Quin Schieber as they followed the signal from Trip. The Centurions thought it best to return to base with the equipment from the Enclave post. Sentinel Tristan and his men had gained a communication relay, which would allow quicker communication with Citadel Control, and the Operatives moved forward without them. Schieber and Bors agreed that they moved faster without the extra feet and attitudes.

"Bors," said Schieber into the communication unit to get his partner's attention, "what's your family like?"

"My family is the Brotherhood, Quin," the Knight grunted.

"I know, I know, but I'm talking about those you came from and raised you," Schieber dismissed the drilled in rhetoric.

"I've had a mother and father, yes," said Jamie as the sand and gravel spread from his power armored boots, "also had a wife and child."

"What are they like?" The Operative was curious.

"I rather not talk about this," the Knight was firm in his resolve.

Schieber was about to press when Trip reported to them, "Operatives Schieber and Bors, analog channel twenty – three A is now in full range, patching through to communication devices."

"The Republic, formerly the Republic of Dave, is open to all traders, visitors, and those seeking immigration statuses. New housing developments, collective agricultural estate, and democratic values are all available in the Republic. Come one, come many, the more that arrive the more we all thrive. With the sweat of our brows, the ideals in our hearts, and knowledge in our minds can make this the Republic grand! I, President Rosie, swear this to you, the future of the world. This message repeats," the recorded message began to loop back as the orator Rosie explained her role in the Republic and appealed for people to come join.

"What do you know of this place," Bors was curious for a local perspective.

"Dad once visited the Kingdom of Tom, before there was a regime change," Schieber pondered for a bit, "but any trading we had stopped when Tom's son, Dave, took power. All trading was limited, very limited."

"Do you think they mind a visit from us?" Bors fiddled with his laser rifle.

"They did ask for everyone to stop by," reasoned the Operative, "but weapons at the ready, all the same. Something does bug me though."

"What's that," asked the Knight as he checked the horizon.

"It's a weak signal, too weak to the south," as Schieber talked, Bors nodded, "so who are they broadcasting too?"

"Only one way to find out," said Bors as he continued to walk forward, "trip, scout a head and report back when you see the first signs of life or structures."

"Orders received, Operative Bors," replied the machine as it hovered forward faster than they could walk.

Four hours passed before they heard word from Trip. They met the robot in the rolling rocky hills that overlooked the Republic. What they saw shocked them a little, two large buildings and two medium sized building were constructed around a flag pole with a chain link fence surrounding. Outside of the fence, there were three red buildings along the west side with metal roofs. To the north, there was one long red building that stretched the whole length of the fence but was only one level. To the east, there seemed to be a red building in the progress of being put up. Behind the large building and the red long house behind it stood five windmills made of scavenged wood and housed in the same red items used for the buildings.

Construction in the Capital Wasteland had only been remarkable in the case of the Brotherhood of Steel's creation of the Citadel and the creation of Megaton from airplane parts. However, the Republic seemed to building from the ground up, quite literarily. Bors could now tell what the red buildings were made from, brick. The Republic was producing a construction material that would be better suited for building than the scavenged bits from wooden homes and sheets of metal. The use of brick not only helped with building structures but placing roads. From ancient Rome to Victorian England, the roads were paved in stone and brick.

Bors tapped Schieber in the helmet and held two fingers forward, the signal to move out. They walked slowly, weapons drawn in case the Republic was not as friendly as the radio declared. Trip was in stealth mode. The Operatives approached the chain gate still wearing full power armor, their bodies sweating inside from the heat of the sun and enclosed suits. Two people stood behind the chain link fence with a Chinese assault rifle and ten millimeter pistol.

The woman was wearing mercenary attire while the man had on altered combat armor with a long trench coat. They didn't point their weapons at the Brotherhood of Steel members, but they didn't put them away either. The front gate didn't seem to bustling, but the noises around the sides and beyond the fence showed there was life to the town. They stared at each other for a while; the Operatives didn't want to start the conversation.

"Visitor, immigrant, or trader?" The woman with the ten millimeter pistol asked the Operatives.

"Uh…what?" Bors stated in confusion.

"Visitor, I guess," answered Schieber.

"Place of origin or group affiliation?" Said the woman.

"Brotherhood of Steel," answered Bors.

"The President has been waiting for you," answered the man for the first time in the conversation.

The gate was opened and the Operatives walked in, "stow your weapons," ordered the man.

Bors and Schieber holstered their weapons but they kept Trip in check just in case the situation went wrong, "where did all of you come from?"

"Born here," replied the woman as they walked up to the large house.

"Emigrated from the I – C – B," replied the man as his trench coat swayed a bit, "the ruins of what was once Baltimore."

"Baltimore exists, still?" Bors was surprised but Schieber didn't know what he was talking about.

"If you can call what the city does surviving, than yea. I guess you can say that," the man still had his Chinese assault rifle in hand as the woman held open the door, "first rule when you meet the President is to refer to her as Madame President, unless instructed otherwise. Got that? Second rule is that all violence is met with swift and exacting justice."

The Operatives nodded as the door was opened to an office with a woman in brahmin coveralls, white shirt, and boots. She was fair haired and had a nice disposition. Her eyes were brown and warm, while she had an unassuming air to her. Unlike any other self-proclaimed or elected leader, she wore the outfit of a worker and a hard worker at that.

"Welcome to the Republic, I'm President Rosie, how do you do?" She introduced herself and held her hand out.

Bors reached forward and he shook her hand, "please to meet you, Madame President. I'm Knight Jamie Bors and this is Knight Quin Schieber, and we're both from the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Please take a seat and call me Rosie," she said with the corner of her lips turned upward, "I've been waiting to see representatives from the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Rosie, to be honest we aren't really representatives," stated Bors.

"What my partner is saying is that we came here because we discovered your transmission," Schieber scrambled.

"So Bob never made his way with the message to you?" Her face seemed to falter with the news, "ah, well, it's all the better you are here now."

"What were your plans for a meeting with us, Rosie," asked Bors in curiosity.

"We've gotten words of your free water and delivery and we'd love to be a part of that," Rosie smiled, "we've dug a well and formed a cistern, but more water would always be appreciated."

"We cannot make promises, just yet," said Bors, as he held his hand up, "we'd like to get to know your settlement better."

"I'd be more than happy to show you everything from the brick makers to the wind farm," Rosie said and stood up from behind the desk; she opened the safe behind her quickly and removed a set of keys.

Schieber turned his helmet and let the unfiltered air whiz in as the air tight seal broke; he removed the power armor helmet with his damp shaggy hair clinging to his ears and the side of his face, "rather see this place with my own eyes."

Bors nodded and removed his own helmet to let his full chestnut brown beard and damp mid-length hair loose. Steam rose from his head, a mark of the relative cold air and the difference of heat in the power armor. Both men held their power armor helmets. Knight Bors shook his head to let the droplets loose and caused the Rosie to laugh.

"You just, remind me a mutt I used to own," she sighed as they all got up and walked out the office, "darn I miss that pup."

Jamie looked at Quin and laughed out loud, "not the first woman to think I'm a dog."

"You'll be popular with the women folk in the Republic," the President said as the male guard from Baltimore walked with them.

"Hadn't thought of staying that long," admitted Bors as he rubbed his still damp beard.

"The Republic offers shelter for all, especially esteemed guests of the Brotherhood of Steel," replied Rosie as they slowly walked through the main compound.

"Knight Bors, I think we should take up the good President's invitation," replied Schieber as he licked his lips, "a warm home cooked meal would be greatly appreciated."

"Warm meals are something we specialize in, Knight Schieber," Rosie said as the man kept apt attention on all of them, "but I say the warmth comes more from the company as we all eat together."

"Sounds like a family meal from back home," Quin commented as they stopped in front of a wooden box with a concrete wall off in the distance with several dummies.

"As you can see, we have a practice range set up. My son, Bob, is the second-in-command of the Republican Guards and quarter master of the practice range." the President said to introduce a young man leaned against the wall of the large house near the shooting range, he had a flat top haircut and a mercenary suit; "where does your family live, Knight Schieber?"

"My family comes from Drayden, to the southwest," Quin said, not sure if they knew much of the geography of the area.

"Some traders have been selling Drayden foodstuffs," admitted the President, "we were hesitant at first, but soon welcomed the produce and spices. We'd love to get a direct contract with Drayden than second-hand deliveries from traders."

"I can't speak for certain about all of the Drayden, but my family compound might be interested in something to that order," Schieber said with a smile, "I'll be more than happy to send them a message, President Rosie."

She smiled and led them to the two structures at the east, "that would be most welcomed. These used to be the men and women's barracks, but now they house the Republican Guards and the children. Children are the future and the compound is the best protected area to ensure that they are safe. Also the school house is right across the way and cuts down on them being tardy or skipping."

Bors laughed out at that one clapped Schieber on the back, "when I was a young man, my friends and I always sought to escape lessons from Scribe Jameson. She planned an intense course load."

"Kids, no matter the age or society, always find a way of getting out of their duties and into trouble, it seems," said the President with a smile.

"The Republic offers children a place to be children," commented the male Republican Guard with the trench coat, "not so in many other places."

"Drayden was better than most as well, learned most of what I know from my mother and brothers," said the Operative in agreement as he walked over to a pen that had been constructed from salvaged wood near the gate, "what are those…things?"

"Nutria," grunted the Republican Guard, as Rosie pet one of the critters with a bow around the neck, "great for meat, fur, and the children have taken a liking to them."

"Do they, do they taste well?" Schieber asked as he leaned down pet the same nutria as Rosie.

"You'll see tonight, well roast one up," the President said as she pet the fur back, "isn't that right, Paws? Not your turn tonight, dear, can't go breaking little Flower's heart."

"Is Flower one of your children, President Rosie?" Bors asked in curiosity.

"Youngest of my children," said Rosie as she stood up and brushed her hand on her coveralls, "do you have children, Knight Bors?"

"I did, once," admit the burly thick set Brotherhood of Steel Knight, "but that's a tragedy for another day."

"I'm terribly sorry," said Rosie as she rested a hand on his arm and looked him in the eyes.

It was visible that the burly man bit back his emotion and put a false smile on his face, "what about those brick making facilities and wind farm?"

Rosie nodded her understanding and ordered the guard to open the gate, "first to the right is the cistern, than the communal bunk house," said the President, "but we'll lodge you in the large house."

The small red brick building on the west side of the compound had a tin roof. The door was made of broken pieces of road signs. She opened it but didn't let them walk in. There was no floor, just a hole dug deep into the ground and copper lip that came up six inches to form a protective boundary from between the earth and water. The Operatives only saw then that there was a loose pool ladder to the side of the building.

"The cistern is lined with a copper drum we were able to collect from the ICB," said the President, "well, a few barrels, we've fused them together."

"Fused them how, welding?" Schieber asked Rosie, "the use of copper is good; brass might have been a better choice, but air tight stone seals would have been the best."

"You know your way around plumbing, Knight Schieber," said the President as she closed the door to the cistern, "we pounded them together, didn't have anything that could burn hot enough to weld."

"It'll do, temporarily," said Schieber, "but to make certain it's sealed air tight, you'll need to weld."

"Next door, is the bunk house," the President opened one of the doors to show how the bunk beds and single twin beds were sectioned off between barriers for families but lined in rows for the rest, "it's temporary until we get more bricks and units built."

"Using body heat to warm the place, effective choice," said Bors with a nod, "but illness should be more rampant if you all live this way for a long time."

"It's just temporary for now," agreed the President, "but we've got a good medical staff that deal in preventive care as best as possible."

"You have a clinic set up?" Schieber turned his head around when they were outside, "where is it."

"Well, it's temporarily in the main building," the President pointed out, "we also have the kitchens there too, but we make sure to eat out in the open. The weather is hardly ever that bad."

"There is more rain to the south," Operative Schieber nodded to the reasonable arrangement, "but to be honest, we're more interested in the brick making."

"Of course," said the President, "but we need to go over the wind farm hill to get to it. Don't mind a little more walking?"

"Rosie, we walked all the way from DC here," joked Bors, "making it up that little hill will be nothing."

"Quite right," said the President as they walked over the hill past the whirling blades of the wind farm to overlook the brick makers, "the brahmin pen and barley fields are also here too."

There were twenty men and women staged around the brick makers and the brahmin pen, some wore mercenary attire and others had on combat armor with a tan trench coat. The reason for so many of the Republican Guards in this area was due to the concentration of building materials and food stuffs. A small brick shack lay in the middle of an area that had thousands upon thousands of bricks baking in the hot wasteland sun. The brahmin mooed into the heat as they drank and ate barley from food troughs with both heads, over a two hundred head of cattle were caged in a pen that could fit more. Behind them both stood small plots of barley that waved as the wind blew like hair sticking up from the earth, between the plots grew an assortment of other vegetables and roots that would feed the people of the Republic.

Men and woman were walking through the fields and pens collecting fallen biomass and dung in wheel barrels and bringing them to several brick makers that wore shorts and tank tops with bandanas on their heads. The brick makers mixed the stalks of used barley and dung from brahmin along with dirt, rocks, and some water. They kneaded the mixture with their hands in a giant earthen bowl before slopping it into rectangular casts made of bent metal or nailed wood. Down the line, another set of brick makers would lightly tap out the semi-harden bricks with mallets made from sticks and layered brahmin leather. These loosened bricks were left to bake in the sun till dried, lined in rows by the hundreds and thousands. Operative Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors found it hard to lift their jaws.

Doctor Peter Williams Cushing had been awake for two days straight. He thought his blood was nearly a hundred percent caffeine, mentats, and other stimulants. The two patients he had agreed to take on were the challenge he was looking for, checking up on the residents for vault depressive syndrome and the occasional burn made for easy work. Adventure and thrill was in Cushing reaching the limits his education allowed and forcing him to be inventive or creative. The CAT and MRI scans were complete. He was currently putting the man named Lesko through a PET scan while the Brotherhood of Steel Elder was being prepped by two of their Scribes that had medical training.

There was five of the crimson robe Scribes that arrived with the vertibird transported patients. They all seemed to have some sought of medical or biology training that made working with the patients better than having assistants that didn't know the difference between capillaries and arteries. Brotherhood Scribes proved to be adept, if not well practiced, Cushing worked well with the one named Mendel. She had the forethought to collect as much medical history of Lesko and all the Brotherhood files on Owyn Lyon's treatments on the west coast and in the Capital Wasteland. However, Brotherhood of Steel only recorded injuries from battles and not illness.

With a limited patient history, Peter Cushing knew he was working in the dark with only a small flashlight; and therein he thrived. His desk was covered in books, open folders, and two terminals that had read outs from the previous tests. Georgina Mendel walked into the office with another Scribe, he held yet another file with circled areas around an outline of human form.

"Doctor Cushing, any progress?" Mendel asked as she snatched the file from the male Scribe and shooed him away.

"Well, Georgina, I'm dealing with two unique issues at the moment," he said as he walked over to her to see the file, "what is it you have?"

"Doctor Hopkins' reports were great. I decided to follow up with full body examinations on Doctor Lesko and Elder Lyons," Mendel's face was twisted in slight disgust, "I've seen scars before, but Elder Lyons has some nasty old wounds."

"What was the most recent for the Elder?" Cushing said as he flipped through the file, "I can guess Lesko's most recent injury."

"The Elder had a broken arm seven years back, but that was due to a falling container," said the Scribe, "no complications."

"Was it set easily? No bone fragments," asked the Cushing as he looked over the files and found something interesting.

"None," replied Mendel as she shook her head.

"What's this…wound here?" Peter pressed his finger down onto a diagram of Elder Lyon's left leg.

"Shrapnel wound to the right thigh," Mendel visibly winced, "the scar is ugly, nearly five inches long and ropey. Logs listed that he need three rounds of surgery on it, for removing bone fragments."

Cushing smiled and closed the file, "after the pet scan, I want a radioactive dye test for Lyons."

"What are you thinking," asked the Brotherhood Scribe.

"The dye test should tell me if I'm right," said the doctor as he laid the file with the rest, "we have two different cases before us, Scribe Mendel. One in which direct trauma had an effect on the brain. My former colleague thinks he may have suffered from a massive hemorrhage, I'm not so certain. The scans show a hazy mass, but that could be anything really. Owyn Lyons is different.

"His issues are clearly symptomatic of something occurring internally," Peter was rubbing his right cheek with his left hand, "Hopkins thought it may have been genetic at worse, or viral. An injury that never fully healed internally or a botched surgery could have caused an internal issue. As he wasn't injured recently, it needs to be something waiting in his system, like a ticking time bomb."

"Like a bone chip," nodded Mendel.

"It could be a bone chip that migrated or cut tissue," agreed the doctor, "but that would have killed Lyons for certain because a foreign piece would have traveled through his blood and then his brain. But what happened stopped at the loss of consciousness. That is what we need to figure out."

"I'll go run up a request for the radioactive dye," the Scribe walked out of the room and pulled another crimson robe person with her.

Nearly forty – five minutes had passed until there was a knock on the door and a young woman with blonde hair that was tied up entered his office. He looked at her and smiled, Susie Mack did not return the warmth. She was clearly uneasy and her skin was slightly pale with a hint of green. Doctor Peter Williams Cushing pulled up a chair for Susie to sit in.

"Well, this could be either good news or bad news, Susie," Cushing gave a supportive smile.

"Just as long as this nausea will end, that's all I'll care about," Susie held her breath as waive of sickness passed.

"It does go away, but in time," Peter said, "but be prepared for lower back pain, swollen ankles, mood swings, and insatiable urges."

"Crap, what kind of illness is this?" Susie Mack asked with a frown.

Cushing laughed out loud, shaking his head and patting her knee, "Susie, this isn't an illness. You're pregnant."

The silence was deafening as the girl just sat there in shock, the doctor cleared his throat, "I know it's a lot to take in, but I'd like to get you started on some pre-natal vitamins, pronto."

Susie Mack found her voice, "this, this can't be happening."

"The test is fairly accurate, it's too soon for a sonogram, but you're a few weeks along," reassured the doctor, "it's perfectly normal to be this reactive with your first child. Pre-natal vitamins will strengthen yours, and the baby's, constitution."

"But I, we, used protection!" Susie seemed to demand an answer that the doctor couldn't really give.

"Susie, things happen, there could have been…an operator error with the prophylactic," reasoned Peter as he scratched his bald head, "the vault-tec dispenser could have malfunctioned. What matters now is that there is a possibility of life inside you right now. Now, I'm not going to sway you either way, but there are a few paths you can take."

"I…need time to…think this over," Susie tried to stand up but a wave of nausea forced her to sit down.

"If you want to discuss the options, I'm here. I know Chaplain Price is available. I'm sure you friends will be willing to listen; your family will be willing to listen even though they might not seem like it," offered the Doctor, "but I think it would be best to discuss it with the father, first and foremost."

Susie stared into Cushing's eyes, "I don't know where Colin is, and if you can't tell me, I don't know how I can tell him."

Cushing sighed, "though they're here for the two patients they brought in, I think Scribe Mendel can find the information you need."

"I… want to talk with him…in person," said Susie as she successfully got up from the seat, "something like this, I need to see his reaction."

"I'll ask Scribe Mendel to talk with you, don't worry," Cushing smiled reassuringly, "just stay calm and try not to overly excite yourself. Okay?"

Susie Mack nodded and made her way out of the office and clinic. Cushing put the pills away, uncertain if the young woman would help repopulate the wasteland. Human life was a precious commodity the Capital Wasteland was short on, in both quality and quantity. The possibility of new life meant new beginnings and a future for the place they called home. The doctor took out two mentats and downed them with a belt of whiskey. The challenge of medicine awaited his expertise.

One day after the special election, the Brotherhood of Steel was completely finished with tallying the votes. While two outliers were elected to be judges, three of the candidates that were projected to win were elected as well. Susan LaCroix and Marshall Lawson were two of those projected to have won. The other projected win was Sheila Torres – Brandice, a council woman and widow of one of the first families in Grayditch. The other two that won were a local trader named Joost Van Dyke and one of the farmers named Randall. Several Grayditch guards were put in charge delivering the orders to serve, but Star Paladin Bael chose to serve the orders to Marshall Lawson himself.

Sitting in the lawman's office with Marshall, this time in his regulation power armor, the Star Paladin sipped on whiskey from an almost clean glass, "now you're Sheriff and Judge, the only position you need next would be executioner," stated Bael as he passed the paper order typed up by the Brotherhood that listed all the duties and expectations agreed upon by the council of Grayditch.

"Forty years ago, the law of the land was how many bullets you had in your gun," Lawson tried not to rise to Bael's taunt, "and didn't you call Regulators paid executioners just the other day?"

Bael let out a low whistle, "forty years ago, that's a long time for an old bounty hunter."

"Cut the crap kid, I'm sixty – two," the lawman lit a match to start his cigar, "been around the bush longer than you."

"We appreciate experience," commented Bael with a smirk, "and we need someone that knows security."

"Damn straight," agreed Marshall, "I want to order some of my men to guard these justices."

"Guard but not influence, taciturn men should be chosen for those duties," injected Bael, "and if they can guard the prisoners that would be great too."

"I never lost trust in my men for guarding the prisoners, only you and your people pushed for that," rejoined Lawson, "so why do you want to cut your men from guard duty."

"There are five well trained men getting soft playing house," Bael shrugged, "they're better suited for other work. However, I want an over view of all these men."

"I can't allow that," dismissed Marshall Lawson, "these men will be of my choosing. I'll give you dossiers on them, for securities sake, but all choices are mine. You should know how this plays."

_All too well, _thought Bael as he licked his lips, _the Regulators really chose an operator for this position_, "these men cannot be regular guards. This groups needs to be…different. Fuck ups like One – Arm Jonas should not be a part."

Lawson cringed over the new name for one his deputies; the man had been shot in an altercation and complications from the wound led to the appendage being removed, "Jonas will remain in his desk job, but I know of a few men that I trust explicitly."

"Let me guess, former Regulators?" If Lawson was shocked he didn't indicate it on his face, "I have eyes, Marshall, they may not be wearing dusters but they do have the walk and the hardware. A man and his gun hard things to part, and when you see most guards carry thirty – two caliber hunting rifles those with level action Marlin 1894s, Winchester 1895s, and Chinese assault rifles tend to stick out like sore thumbs. Don't insult my intelligence by denying it."

Marshall Lawson shook his head, "they won't be the only ones, people that know these streets will be more important to have as guards."

_I wonder how long you and Sonora were planning this_, thought Bael as he turned the glass in his hand, "complete dossiers that include names, aliases, origins of birth, current residency, family, previous jobs, any and all connections. Hell, I want to know who they lost their virginity to and if the friggen girl, man, or brahmin liked it."

"I think something can be arranged," agreed the lawman as he puffed on his cigar, "the faster your men are out of my office, the better for everyone. We can't have secret operations occurring in Grayditch, like the removal of an attempted murder victim."

_Touche_, thought Bael as he tipped his glass up, "to Justice and Security."

True to the Bounty Hunter's word, the Operative and his rented crew were ahead of schedule. It had been four days since leaving the Sewer Way – station and they were on the outskirts of Canterbury Commons, Daniel Roe's hometown. The water tower, now filled with aqua pura, marked the beginning of the town's limits. Canterbury Commons was the official headquarters of all large caravan traders in the Capital Wasteland. The community became more stable with work of Ernest Roe and end of hostilities between the Enclave and the Brotherhood of Steel.

The relative return to normal with the repulsion of the Enclave and the forged ties created by the Lone Wanderer had improved the economic situation for Capital caravans. The Lone Wanderer's investments had increased the inventory of traveling merchants. The large inventories of Crow, Lucky Harith, Crazy Wolfgang, and Doc Hoff forced them to establish storage and storefronts in Canterbury Commons. Where the caps were, people were sure to follow.

Crowley's ghouls had their black nylon face wraps on to prevent others from seeing in and gave them a fabric that was easy to breathe and see through. Roe was happy to be on familiar ground. The few years he worked on a caravan didn't allow for long stays with his dad or cousin. Roe sought work with traders because that was how his father started. _A person's fortune needed to be made on his own_, taught his self – starting father, _being young allows you to take more risks and make up for them later in life_. For the Capital Wasteland, the biggest risks were wandering the land or joining the Brotherhood of Steel. Daniel Roe did both.

The group of eight walked in through the main paved circle that surrounded a long dead tree. The circle served as a trading area for when merchants came to town, more recently several stalls and kiosks had been erected to sell goods. They were simple in design, for wall metal boxes that had a door in the back and front half that could be lifted and secured as an awning when open for business. Dan saw no less than ten protectrons patrolling the sidewalk as people, traders, and merchants used the pre-war street. A Mister Gutsy patrolled the circle around the dead tree, Roe kept eyeing it as they walked to the main road because it would occasionally bark orders, and noticed a few Mister Handy's hovering in the crowd with building materials. Roe held a hand to Franklin's chest holding a small pouch with a few caps.

"Take the men to Porter's Café, get them something to eat and drink," Dan leaned in close for the next part, "ghouls are not too common in this neck of the woods, best to keep the masks on even when eating."

Franklin nodded and relayed the message to the others and walked with them to the diner, Samuel Warrick leaned to Roe's ear, "saw sum carbon fiber parts in a stahll in the circle."

It wasn't a request and Dan recognized that, "meet up with the boys in Porter's Café. We'll head out from there."

The bounty hunter nodded and walked back to the merchant circle. Dan walked through the crowd, lightly pushing people out of his way as he scanned the crowd. The Mister Handys were working on repairs to buildings at the end of the street where tons of debris used to be located. Then he spotted his father's bald head through the crowd as he walked the streets. Roe slowly made his way up to his dad and tapped the man on his left shoulder while moving to his right side.

His father turned to the left and then around to see his son standing next to him with gray combat armor and a jacket on, "Danny, you're home! The Brotherhood let you out for a little while?"

Ernest Roe gave a soft jab into Dan's shoulder, "I'm still on the job dad, but business has me working up in this neck of the woods. Thought I'd drop in to say hello."

"You'll do more than say hello," Ernest Roe pulled his son into hug him hard, "you're going to have dinner with Derek and I, just like old times."

"Dad, I have partners in town, they're at Porter's getting some grub," said Daniel as he tried to get out the bear hug from his dad.

"Your friends from the Brotherhood of Steel can join for dinner. I'll make enough for all of us," welcomed Ernest Roe as he held an arm on his son's shoulder.

"They're…not from the Brotherhood," Dan winced as he said it, his dad turned to look him in the eyes.

Ernest moved his son's jacket to the side on both his left and right to expose the Brotherhood of Steel crest, "thought the Brotherhood of Steel used power armor."

Operative Roe turned his head from side – to – side, "let's speak in your office."

"Daniel, it can't be that serious," said his dad as Roe helped led him to the firehouse that served as the family home, "can it?"

They walked up the staircase and entered his dad's office, "okay, Daniel, you have me spooked a little."

Dan made sure to close the door before he spoke, "what I'm about to tell you is in the strictest of confidence, do you understand, dad?"

"You know you could tell me anything," said his dad who didn't sit down.

Dan sighed before he continued, "dad, I'm part of the Brotherhood of Steel's intelligence branch, and there is a brief mission near the Republic I need to do."

"Intelligence, what the hell kind of work is that," asked his father as he crossed his arms.

"We, I try to help out the communities around the Capital," answered Dan as he licked his lips, "a lot of our work is secretive because we gather information for the Brotherhood of Steel. We do this… I do this… because the Brotherhood can't have soldiers in every city and town if we're to clean up the D.C. Ruins from the super mutant threat."

Ernest Roe chewed his lip for a little while, "why is the Brotherhood keeping tabs on cities and towns? Do they have a person in here now? You can tell me, I'm you're old man."

"The Brotherhood just doesn't want to have to fight anyone in these settlements, they want them to prosper," Operative Roe held his hands up defensively, "and as far as I know there are no operatives in Canterbury Commons. That's not to say we aren't interested."

"Daniel, where are you going with this," pressed his dad.

"Dad, you do a lot of business, it's no secret that merchants and caravans go through you," the Operative said, "and that sort of information can be helpful. Do you think you could be an operator for us? That would be just gathering information from the traders, merchants, and caravans and relay that to me and our headquarters."

Ernest Roe sighed and messaged his forehead, "all you want is information?"

"Yes, dad, information," said the younger Roe as looked at the man who raised him, "Crow deals in armor, Lucky Harith in guns, and Doc Hoff with chems. I'd like to know whose buying, the quantities, and ultimately where they get their products."

"Son, this is a high order," stated Ernest Roe, "I don't want it to infringe on where the merchants sell."

"If anyone can do it, it'll be you dad," said Dan with a smile, "ask the merchants to keep detailed books of what they sell and where. Hell, you'd probably be able to make your own small outfit to tag along as book keepers. If the trading business is as good as it seems."

"I'll look into it, but how would I get this information to you? You're not the easiest person to get a hold of," his dad had sent letters to the Citadel but few responses ever came back.

Dan walked over to the desk and got some paper and a pencil to write down the location of the Alexandria, and showed it to his dad, "send a courier to this location with the information when you can. Did you memorize this address?"

Ernest nodded and Dan took out an old lighter to set the paper on fire, "Jesus, son, did you really need to do that?"

"We might have an address but not one we expect too many visitors to know," said Dan firmly.

"So these…partners of yours, their intelligence as well?" Ernest asked his son.

"More like…business associates," answered Dan as he removed his jacket because he was getting hot, "we got some intelligence that the Republic was looking to get in the slave market."

His father laughed, "the Republic sell slaves? Son, that's near impossible," Ernest said as he eyed his son up and down, "you're not joking are you? Dan, I've done deals with President Rosie. The Republic is the furthest from selling slave labor. Hell, Canterbury Commons would more likely sell slaved before the Republic."

"We can't have another settlement begin trading in human lives. Paradise Falls already makes up the majority of that disgusting market," Roe lamented to his father.

"Ever since those Paradise Falls guys moved up north, there's been a love – hate relationship between the caravans and local merchants," offered his father, "since the new security has been up, they tend to not cause a ruckus when they come into town."

"Is Mister Wollinski back?" Daniel Roe referred to the man that used to work out of the Robot Repair Center.

"Nah, that loon is long gone," answered Ernest with a shake of his head, "sold the deed to the machine shop to this elderly fellow named Tinker Joe. Sold it to him cheap for a thousand caps plus twelve protectrons for the town's security and now the Robot Repair Center is part of Canterbury Commons, officially."

"And the Mister Handys that are working in the street?" Inquired Daniel, _dad you're already a major operator, at least this way you'll be able to assist me_.

"Bought them outright when he fixed up the machines, figured they'd be great for clearing some debris and getting these buildings livable again," Ernest said, "they do better work then ten untrained men."

Dan nodded along, "but where are you getting the building materials?"

Ernest held his son by the back of his neck with their foreheads together, "it comes from the Republic. They're making bricks and mortar."

Dan bit his bottom lip, "do they have a stall out in the old merchant stop?"

"Yea, their merchant's name is Ricky," said Ernest as he opened the door, "so will you have dinner with Derek and I, maybe even spend the night?"

"Just need to tell my boys to find a place for the night," answered Roe.

"Talk with Emmaline Hearth, she owns the hotel in town," as they walked through the doors and down the stairs, Ernest jabbed his son in the ribs playfully, "mention you're a Roe and you'll get the rooms complimentary."

"Dad, I may be family, but trust that the Brotherhood of Steel pays well," Dan smiled and patted his father on the shoulder, "I'll pay for the rooms."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," said his dad, "I'm going to pick up some food for tonight."

"Okay," said Dan as he pointed out to the end of the street, "which stall is Ricky's?"

"He has the bricks and pots in the stall," answered Ernest as he patted him on the shoulder, "don't forget, dinner tonight. Derek will be excited to see you."

Knight Captain Galeas and Operative Anna LaCroix were in the briefing room. The desks and chairs had been moved out of the way. Neither of them wore power armor, settling for some light weight fatigues. They both had their hair in ponytails as they walked around facing each other in a circle. Both the Knight Captain and the Operative had a standard issue military combat knife.

LaCroix lunged forward with the blade out, Galeas countered and parried with the base of her own blade and took a step forward catch the Operative in a neck hold. She tapped the blade to Anna's armpits and neck before letting her go. LaCroix stepped back and switched her hold on the blade to have the dull side run down her forearm. The Operative slashed forward to be blocked by Galeas and set her off – balance. Anna rolled under Galeas' counter parry and the Operative attempted to kick the Knight Captain's feet from under her.

Galeas saw this and jumped to miss the first leg but not the second. Knight Captain fell on her back and whacked her head. LaCroix scrambled from the ground quickly, dropping her knife to help the Knight Captain up. Galeas rubbed the back of her head and noticed the Operative was missing her weapon. The Brotherhood of Steel Knight Captain gave a flick of her blade to put a deep but not life threatening cut in LaCroix's neck. The Operative stumbled back holding her neck as blood seeped through her hands and down her fatigues.

"Never, never drop your weapon in this line of work," ordered the Knight Captain as she picked up the Operative's knife, "I've told you once, twice is too many times. Maybe the scar from that wound will be a constant reminder."

"The blood…won't stop," LaCroix was terrified.

"It's flesh wound," Galeas tossed a bandana to the Operative, "tie it around your neck to keep pressure on the wound and get back into position."

"What, spare with a wound like this," said LaCroix as she tied the bandana around her neck.

"You'll have to fight with more serious wounds if you don't shape up," answered the Knight Captain as she feigned a lunge and LaCroix deflected it as he hand went to her neck, "and you can still talk, so no major damage."

"Fuck you," was all LaCroix said as she counter lunged and Galeas elbowed her in the neck.

The Operative was down on the ground gasping for breath as blood continued to flow, the Knight Captain circled around the fallen Operative, "remember vital areas. External carotid, innominate, axillary and external iliac. The abdominal aorta is difficult, but with some work you can achieve it," recited Galeas as she tapped the knife to her neck, underarms, and inner thighs.

LaCroix just wheezed and coughed as blood continued to flow, "son of a bitch."

"So I've been told," said Galeas as she kicked the Operative in the legs, "now repeat the arteries."

LaCroix coughed before she began to recite the arteries by memory along with their placement, "external carotid in the neck, make sure to sever the larynx to prevent the target from speaking. Innominate artery in the shoulder, stab straight down through clavicle. Axillary artery, under the armpit between the first set of ribs, push in and turn for proper amount of damage. External iliac is in the inner thigh and a cut between the thigh and gentiles will empty the body of enough blood in five seconds; best used for sexual situations."

"So she can learn something," commented the Knight Captain as she tossed a towel to the still bleeding Operative, "you're done for the day."

Knight Captain Galeas left the room as she holstered her combat knife. Operative Anna LaCroix sobbed a little as she gathered herself and checked her wound. She knelt down on the floor, looking up into the ceiling for a second as he lips trembled and moved. LaCroix bent forward wither arms outstretched and her knees still bent. Her face was close to the sweat and blood on the floor of the training area where Galeas was teaching her to kill people quickly and quietly. On her lips the verse fell with weight.

"Either being slain you will attain the heavenly worlds or by gaining victory you will enjoy the Earth;" Anna recited from the scripture given to her by Elias in a quiet, mouse like voice, "therefore O Arjuna, confident of success rise up and fight."

Ambassador George Schultz downed two belts of whiskey. He pushed some papers on his desk around with his thick fingers and read them to himself again. Schultz wet his lips to taste the lingering whiskey as he sighed deeply. Pressing an illuminated red button on his terminal, the Ambassador sat down in his chair. He crossed his legs at his ankles and reread the paper to himself again. _Doctor Zimmerman and his personal security have not been in contact with the Synth Retention Bureau since 2277. Last known location was on board a derelict United States Aircraft Carrier repurposed for scientific and civilian use. The United States Aircraft Carrier has been re-christened Rivet City. Zimmerman reported entrance to be at the Washington Navy Yard._

The door to his tent opened and he stared at the two people that walked in to his office. One was a black man with a bald head wearing a black suit with a thin black tie. The other was an Asian woman with an equally shaved head in a similar black suit with think black tie. Both persons stood with their hands behind their back and the legs spread shoulder length apart, the black man was five feet and ten inches tall; the Asian woman was five feet and four inches tall. Schultz poured himself another drink and sat back down behind his desk. He put the papers together and passed them file.

"A five – seventeen and A seven – twenty – five, read that file and memorize it," said Schultz as he took a sip from his whiskey.

The black man opened the file, took the first page and then passed it to the Asian woman; they repeated that process until the file was complete and the Asian had organized it back to its original state, in unison they replied, "task complete, Ambassador Schultz."

"I have just been informed that we are not allowed to leave the area provided for us, do you understand?" The Ambassador asked to the androids.

"Yes, Ambassador Schultz," they answered again.

"It is essential for the SRB to reclaim A three – twenty – one, never before has one of our hunters gone rogue and the Commonwealth will not allow that to occur," George Schultz said as he rubbed his jaw, "your orders are to infiltrate this settlement known as Rivet City under the disguise of civilian scientists. You are to make no reference to the Commonwealth, or its activities in the D.C. area. Primary objective is to learn what happened to Doctor Zimmerman and his personal security synthetic humanoid. Secondary objective is to discover any Abbey of the Road or Underground operators in the limits of Rivet City. Tertiary objective is to discover any leads on the whereabouts of A three – twenty – one. Secondary and tertiary objectives are optional. Is that understood A five – seventeen and A seven – twenty – five?"

"Yes, Ambassador Schultz," answered the androids.

"Do you have any operation questions," asked the Ambassador.

That android that resembled a black man designated A 3 – 17 asked, "will we have access to subterfuge equipment and permission to terminate interfering persons?"

"No to subterfuge equipment and no terminating interfering persons," replied the Ambassador.

"Will we need names and disguises," asked the android that resembled an Asian woman designated A 7 – 25.

"Yes you will need names," replied the Ambassador, "and yes you will need disguises. You can find all your needed equipment with your handlers."

There was a long pause where Shultz looked at the androids and they stared back coldly, he broke the silence, "what is it."

"You have not assigned us names," replied A 7 – 25.

"I don't care what you call yourselves," barked Ambassador George Schultz, "for fucks sake, call yourselves Lewis and Clark for all I care. Just remember that you are SRB agents and operate at the discretion of the Commonwealth. A three – seventeen and A seven – twenty – five, you are both dismissed."

"Yes, Ambassador Schultz," said the androids as they walked out with the female Asian leading the way.

Ambassador George Schultz tilted his head back to knock down what was left of his whiskey.

**A/N**: The quote from Anna LaCroix comes from the second chapter, verse thirty – seven, of the Bhagavad Gita. Some of the Eastern Shore tribes, including the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the State of Delaware, have a combination of Hinduism and Islam based on ritual practice; if not ideology. There is a fairly large Indian (Desi) population in Delaware to help support this concept, if there was ethnic mixing between the Hindus and Muslims that survived the Great War than this is a possibility. I stress this is only a possibility.

The ICB stands for the Independent City of Baltimore. Baltimore is the only independent city in Maryland, compared to thirty – nine independent cities in Virginia. The other US independent cities are St. Louis, MO and Carson City, NV. Independent cities do not belong to counties and are reliant upon their own for local tax revenue and local law. Baltimore, MD is the largest independent city in the United States with a population over 625,000 and metropolitan workforce that is over two and half million persons in 2009. (Imagine what those numbers would be with a US population growth rate at nearly one percent each year and ending in 2077.)

Mister Handy's were used in the reconstruction of Mexico City after a terrible earthquake in 2042.

The processes to make sun baked bricks and kiln baked bricks are similar to the process described above. This is based off brick making from the Middle East, Indus Valley, and Romans. Cement and concrete take more machines and work to produce finished products. The production of brick and mortar is a lot less work intensive and use less machinery. Likewise it's one of the oldest building materials in the world, dating back to 2900 BCE.

The Commonwealth does have a Synth Retention Bureau, Dr. Zimmerman, Armitage, and Harkness were once members.

Please read and review.


	9. Intensive Care

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 9.) Intensive Care

Operative Daniel Roe, the bounty hunter Samuel Warrick and the ghouls from Mister Crowley's Games and Cards entered a set of streets that had rubble and debris strewn everywhere. The only standing building was barely two levels. They quietly approached the main door to see a guard waiting. Roe approached and handed him the letter given by Carolina Red. He opened the gate and told Dan only he and the Bounty Hunter could enter. The ghouls shrugged it off and waited outside the gated compound around the rubble with the radio.

There were several men in the building, they were moving trunks filled with weapons that had the merchant's store Lock and Load stenciled on the side in black. Jostling by the slavers forced Roe and Warrick up the stairs. The holes in the ceiling and floor were patched over with pieces of metal that had been stock piled from the Pitt in their steel for slaves trade. In the top portion of the building there was a table with a roughly assembled map of the Republic made from rocks and bits of junk. Carolina Red was standing at the table with a man in metal armor that hade miniature Mohawk hairdo and some whiskers on his chin and upper lip.

There were no introductions, Roe and Warrick just walked up to the table, "job with that prick done, Sam," asked the female slaver.

"Wasn't too difficult," Warrick removed his sniper rifle from his shoulder and laid it on the table, "but since I did yeh a favor, I was thinkin' yeh can return it. Heard yeh got payin' work here."

"Not much need for bagging, but we could use some skilled people," nodded Carolina as she tossed him a pouch of caps and turned to Roe, "where the fuck are your men."

"Outside, your guards didn't want too many of us in at once," replied the Operative with a steely look.

"Shit, I didn't know your men were that smart, Leroy," the exaggerated accent let the other men know she was being sarcastic.

"I know Warrick is good for the caps, but I hope you and your crew will hold up your end," growled out Walker as he tried to stare down Roe.

"If the caps clink loudly enough, will hold up just fine," Daniel crossed his arms and looked at the map, "so what's the plan?"

"No games, a lot better than that son of a bitch friend of yours," replied Red as Warrick gave a chuckle, "thought you might ask when you'd get paid."

"I'd like it upfront, but since my men and I won't be sleeping in this dump and taking our rest under the stars, I figured you'd be fine to settle up with us after this mission," said Roe with a straight face that would have pleased Star Paladin Bael, "and I wouldn't want to be the type of person not to pay."

"Pissant like you don't scare me that much," retorted Leroy Walker as Red elbowed him the ribs.

"Shut the fuck up, you two," Carolina stared the two men down, "once I start talking, you better listen, cause if you fuck up I'll put a collar on you quicker than a dog."

"I'm all ears," said Roe as he kept eyeing the male slaver.

Leroy grunted and Carolina pointed to the south entrance of the Republic represented by two splinters, "this is where you'll start, new guy, an attack at the front door of the Republic."

Operative Colin Moriarty Junior, known commonly as J.R., entered the foyer of the Alexandria with his two guests. He was joined by two guests, the commonwealth android that had been there before and the Brotherhood of Steel scribe that had a large chip on his shoulder. They were immediately greeted by Knight Captain Galeas in full power armor. She held her laser rifle level to John Harkness' chest. J.R. simply side stepped right in front of the synthetic humanoid.

"What is he doing here," questioned the highest ranked officer in the Alexandria.

"Didn't Zimm get the request forms to you," asked J.R. as he motioned for the gun to be lowered, "they should be here shortly then, the Commonwealth must be holding up the courier traffic lane. These two would be interested in being part of our organization."

"We don't hire untrained locals or spoilt scribes," answered Galeas with a growl.

"I think I preferred her pointing a laser rifle at me," replied Harkness in J.R.'s ear.

Scribe Actaeon didn't rise to the baiting comment from Galeas, the Operative's comments were repeating in his head; "Actaeon has already gone through basic training, can be useful in the field and in the office. Harkness on the other hand has some specific information that can be very valuable to us."

"The Scribe will need to be retrained for the field," Galeas grunted_, because I don't want that pissant staying in the Alexandria_, "the local can't possibly be any help, he's too old to be trained."

"Perhaps I didn't introduce myself full last time," said the android as he moved from behind J.R.'s human body shield and outstretched his hand, "John Harkness, former officer of Rivet City and retired hunter for the Synth Retention Bureau of the Commonwealth."

Galeas didn't know much of the SRB, but any former resident of the Commonwealth could have a plethora of information for the Brotherhood of Steel, "what made you switch from being in the Commonwealth to being down here?"

"That's an easy answer. Simply put, the job of hunting down escaped machines got to me," Harkness, Actaeon, J.R. and Zimm decided to only reserve the information that Harkness was an android for Bael and Yearling, "however, being part of the SRB, I was in the central nexus of advanced technology patents and probably some of the most secretive information on original technology designs."

"And what of their people, their governments, what information do you have on them?" Galeas holstered her weapon, slightly impressed with the Operative's find but not allowing J.R. to know how she felt.

"I have detailed histories that are…dated, but still very helpful," admitted the synthetic human, "this federated Commonwealth is knew, when I left, the Commonwealth was literally just New Cambridge. However, the local governments that now make this wider federation I do have intimate knowledge of. Likewise, I also know SRB tactics."

"Tactics like what," asked Galeas as she lifted her head up a little as if to signify the higher quality of Brotherhood tactics.

"Well, if your leader isn't a fool he'd deny them ability to leave the immediate landing site designated for them," Galeas nodded as Harkness continued, "and the Commonwealth's ability to hide in plain sight means that several SRB agents have already been sent to collect information from settlements and cities."

"Are you saying that we have foreign spies in Capitol settlements," confirmed Galeas.

"Most certainly, and I'd suspect the first place they'd look would be Rivet City," Harkness stared into the Knight Captain's eyes through her power helmet, "there was a murder of a Commonwealth scientist two years ago in the hydroponics lab. I lost my position as chief of security because it happened on my watch."

"I hope you like paper work," said Galeas, "because you're going to need to fill out a lot for a country profile and all information you can possibly give on individuals."

"Point me in the way of a terminal," offered Harkness, "I can start right now."

"Ha, try getting some paper and a pen," answered the Knight Captain, "we don't have all the technology we need in this office yet. We're still at barebones."

"What can I do," asked Scribe Actaeon.

"You can shut the fuck up and assist the Commonwealth defector, you two aren't in yet," answered Galeas, "consider this a probation period. Star Paladin Bael and Scribe Yearling need to meet on this, after the request forms come in."

J.R. let Galeas ease Actaeon and Harkness into life at the Alexandria while he searched for LaCroix, it had been a while since he had talked with her. He stopped by his apartment first and dropped some of his supplies and removed his chest protector. The fresh air instantly chilled the damp shirt he wore under that armor that absorbed his sweat. He knocked on LaCroix's door, and she just beckoned him in.

She was bent over on a pray mat, a bandage around her neck and hands. The wounds from training with Galeas were still bleeding a little but the one on her neck had already begun to heal. The use of ritual pray had helped her concentrate, but she had yet slipped away from mortal pain or emotional feelings of guilt and shame. Elias told her to take time and practice, luckily Anna LaCroix had time. However, now she was conscience that another Operative was seeing her in an odd state.

"Are you…alright," asked J.R. as he sat on a bunk bed and picked a piece of punga fruit from the nightstand bowl and took a bite.

Anna sat up on her knees and reached for towel to whip the back of her head and long curly locks of hair, "just…centering myself. Didn't know you were coming back today."

"It was unscheduled, what was …that you were just doing," the Operative was curious.

"Meditation, ritual, maybe even a little pray…a courier came the other day with a message for you," Anna stood up without using her hands and opened a draw, "it's a female's writing. Galeas has taken to reading all courier messages, I saved this from her grasp."

"Thanks," said J.R. as he accepted the folded and sealed paper, "have things become tough here?"

"Just some extra training with Galeas, nothing I can't handle," LaCroix kind of resented J.R.'s remark because it implied she was weak.

"Heard anything from Schieber or Bors," LaCroix shook her head, "what of Alvarado and Pop?"

"Trial should be starting soon. The judges have been chosen," informed LaCroix.

J.R. twirled the letter in his hand absent mindedly, "I haven't been in to see those guys since all this started," he said mournfully.

"You know Bael and Yearling's standing orders," reasoned the dark skinned operative, "we can't openly show who all the Operatives are, questions would be asked."

"Yea," said J.R. his heart solemn, "yea."

LaCroix's eyes were transfixed on the letter, "will you open it already?"

J.R. gave a half smile and broke the wax seal and read the hand written letter quickly. He stood straight up, a concerned look on his face. Tucking it into his pants' pocket he walked out of the room at a hurried pace. Anna followed him, calling after her fellow Operative. J.R. was back in his shared apartment as he threw his rucksack in a corner and began stuffing clothes in. LaCroix watched J.R. hurriedly pack.

"What's going on," she asked, clearly something in the letter had been important enough to send the Operative in a state.

"I need to get back to the Vault," he replied as he synched up his rucksack and buckled his combat armor chest plate on, "I'll…I'll report later."

With that, the Operative left as his colleague stared perplexed as he disappeared around the corner. In J.R.'s haste, he had left his room opened and did not lock the door. LaCroix checked to make sure the key was not left somewhere haphazardly before she closed the door to the apartment. She walked back to her room to study the anatomy holotapes that Scribe Yearling had assigned.

Operative Zachary Zimm was attempting his best to remain covert. He had return to Megaton, even though the bandage on his cheek clearly marked him to Moriarty and the raider guards. Zimm hadn't lost sight of the original reason of convincing Ashkelon and Crowley to separate from Moriarty was to ask for Tenpenny assistance. The android had been unexpected and cost the BIOS some valuable observational time and intelligence gathering. Zimm did not want the exercise to be a complete loss.

In Moriarty's Saloon he sat, the ghoul bartender giving him a fair price because of the wound, observing the all too dapper man in the corner. He wore a business suit and fedora with the front brim turned down. His face was obscured, darkened by glasses and the hat. This man was Mister Burke, the representative and right hand of Allistair Tenpenny. Burke took no visitors and seemed to wait for nothing, reveling in disgust and disdain. An older bald man in tight leather armor typical of the raider guards sat down next to Zimm.

Whiping the sweat from his bald head, "you know who I am?"

Zimm looked over to the man that he and his fellow Operatives new to be Leo's drug pusher, "no, I don't know you," lied the Operative as they had never been introduced.

"I work for Moriarty," answered Susa, not believing the lie, "the boss needs to see his son."

"He isn't in town," replied the operative as he took his eyes away from Mister Burke.

Susa just growled, "next time yah see that kid, tell him his dad's looking for him," grumbled the old raider.

"I'm not a courier," commented Zimm, trying to wheedle a reason as to why he should pass the message on, "unless you make it worth my while."

Susa grabbed the back of Zimms neck and squeezed the pressure points between his skull and neck tightly, "listen to me you little punk," spit flying from his doughy lips on the hard consonants, "I've seen yah eye-balling Mistah Burke for a day now. I have half a mind to tell him that too. Now go get your friend that message, and I'll have it in my mind to forget doing anything outside my pay-grade. Clear?"

"Like aqua pura," Zimm gasped out in a cringe; when Susa let go, the Operative calmly removed himself from the saloon after settling his tab.

Gob went to collect his payments but Susa held his hand on top of the ghouls. Splitting the caps in half, the raider guard pocketed half for himself. The ghoul didn't argue with one of Moriarty's men, but knew his boss would be angry with him when his draw came up short. Susa smiled smugly in front of the ghoul and pocketed the caps. Walking over to the sitting room where Mister Burke sat.

In the town hall of Grayditch, a quick construction had been erected in the main hall, now with a raised long panel table and bench that had a front panel to obscure any view under the table. In front of the long bench and table were two tables on ground level, one for the prosecution and one for the defense. Rows of simple benches had been bolted to the floor behind the tables to watch the proceedings. Only fifty people could fit in the room at one given time, comfortably, and at the start of the trial nearly a hundred and fifty men, women and children had crammed themselves into all available sitting and standing room.

Scribe Jameson sat at the wooden table with the three defenders, two guards with badges stood between them and the public gallery. They held lever – action rifles against their forearms, their fingers on the triggers ready for a fight, as the metal badges pinned to their chest were the letter 'M' in a circle. Marshall's Men were some of the regulators snuck into the Grayditch Guards, their duties were to protect the defendants and justices with their life. Another Marshall's Men walked in from the back room and turned to the crowd and the representatives of law.

"Please rise for the honorable Justices of Grayditch: LaCroix, Lawson, Randall, Torres – Brandice, and Van Dyke," announced the Marshall's Men as the five judges approached the bench from the back room and two more guards accompanied them; as the justices sat the guard announced, "you may be seated."

Marshall Lawson and Susan LaCroix were familiar faces on the bench; their dress seemed more formal than usual. Lawson's beard seemed to be less greasy and more combed. Sheila Torres – Brandice carried a mixture of unease and dignified grace, similar to having position but with a horrible secret behind it all. Her youth was fading; her hair was lifeless and dull. The lines on her face were cut deep and longer than the Great Divide. To her left sat the merchant and the farmer.

Joost Van Dyke had established himself as a merchant in Grayditch based on a trade route with Point Lookout between preserved punga fruit and salted ant meat. The use of private schooners ensured that trade was faster and constant than could be provided on a ferry like the Duchess Gambit. Van Dyke's schooners had a lower tonnage than the Duchess Gambit and required wind in their sails to travel, but that was alright as it served to keep the prices on salted ant meat and preserved punga at inflated rates. Van Dyke was olive skinned, thin lipped, of middling height with dark eyes. His hair was thick, wavy, and pulled back into a pony tail along with a neatly cropped goatee that was equally jet black like his hair. Joost's dress was simple cloth shirt tucked into treated brahmin leather pants. Van Dyke was noticeably the youngest justice of the five.

Judge Randall was from an all too different stock compared to his counterparts. The son of runaway slaves, he grew up a harsh life of subsistence and malnutrition being run out of town from locals that did not want to share. While most turned to thievery to survive, Randall happened upon a unique experience. Long after his father and mother left this life, he found himself in the Eastern Shore among the many tribes. Captured and enslaved like his parents were, he was taught a trade. Through farming with the tribals, Randall was able to purchase his freedom after many years and made his way to the Capital Wasteland. Now he was older, nearing the age of Marshall Lawson with just as many winkles and sagging skin but with a sparse amount of hair on his head.

Scribe Elizabeth Jameson stood up from behind her designated desk, "your honors, I'd like to go over my request to separate each defendant's case. I feel it should be the duty of this court to address these alleged crimes on an individual basis…"

"Scribe Jameson of the Brotherhood of Steel," stated Sheila Torres – Brandice from the bench as she looked over a copy of files that all the judges carried, "we've read your request and talked at great length concerning the topic. We feel there is no need to separate the cases of Misters Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop; that being said, the charges made against Mister Galvin Cobb are a completely separate act and will be treated thusly."

"I must protest this decision, your honors," state Elizabeth with indignation, "Mister Juan Alvarado was injured and unable to assault Doctor Weston Lesko."

"The City's counsel has made adequate charges that the attempt on Doctor Lesko's life was premeditated by both parties," replied Marshall Lawson as he nodded to Assistant Mayor Thomas Notley.

"The defense has not been made aware of this change in charges," growled out Jameson, _lackadaisical adherence to time tested judicial procedures are to spit on Pre-War rituals, these local heathens would be rubbing two sticks together to make fire if it wasn't for us Brotherhood of Steel_.

From the back of the public gallery a surely voiced yelled out, "you've been told now, Brotherhood Cunt!"

Elizabeth refused to turn around but the slouch in her shoulders showed she was holding in her anger; Sheila Torres – Brandice slammed a wooden gavel hard on the table top thrice, "one more outburst like that and the gallery will be cleared, is that clear?"

Seeing no answer come from the crowd, Torres – Brandice leaned forward to the Marshall's Men that introduced the justices, "Bailey, how many people are in the gallery right now?"

"I'd say about hundred and thirty, maybe a hundred and fifty, your honor," answered Bailey the Marshall's Men.

Torres – Brandice leaned back to confer with the other justices, "we're over packed in the courtroom. We'll need to clear some bodies out."

"We can't just kick them out like that," murmured Joost Van Dyke, his voice oily and slightly sickening, "we'd have a riot on our hands. I'm only counting five Marshalls in the courtroom."

Marshall Lawson liked the nickname Van Dyke gave his elite group of men, "I can order more of my men in for protection."

"Why aren't they present already," asked Judge Randall in an accusing voice.

Lawson did not like the tone, "my men are currently on the roofs watching for snipers."

"Marshall Lawson is doing what he can to watch out for all of us," Susan LaCroix backed up the law man, "but we should have a brief adjournment and request everyone to leave the courtroom."

"I'll have my men station at the entrance, pat search everyone," agreed Lawson as he looked to the other justices.

"We'll adjourn for, let's say two hours, to clear the courtroom," nodded Torres – Brandice, the other justices nodded; she leant forward and told Marshall's Men Bailey the news.

To the rest of the courtroom, Torres – Brandice announced, "we will be having a short adjournment of two hours. During this time, we highly suggest the counsels confer with their clients and each other. The courtroom shall be emptied after we leave to prevent any misconduct."

The justices stood as Bailey announced for the audience to rise and then leave as the justices retreated to their chambers. The gallery was confused, but Bailey and the other guards began to corral from the public gallery out of the courtroom. Soon the three defendants were taken by the Marshall's Men to their holding cells. Jameson forgot her files on the table and approached Notley.

"That was underhanded and low," she seethed.

"I've told you once, I've told you before," Notley locked up his files, "this isn't a Brotherhood town."

"You just want these boys' blood," she said as she hit the table.

"I do what the city deems to be in its well-being," corrected the Assistant Mayor with a smile, "and if the public demands blood for blood, I am obliged to provide them with satisfaction."

The prosecutor left the courtroom and Jameson kicked her chair, _I've created a room of fucking tribal whores with fancy speech_, she thought as she a long string mumbled curse words, _this is an experiment gone wrong_.

Star Paladin Cristano Bael had heard the news already directly from Scribe Jameson. He busted into Marshall Lawson's office. He held his palms on the front of Lawson's desk as the law men looked at him, not startled when he had broken his door down. Lawson simply downed his whiskey and stared at the dark eyes of Bael. Putting his glass down, Marshall stood up and walked to his drinking cabinet.

"Fancy a glass of whiskey," asked Lawson as he went to refill his own.

"Fuck you," growled out Bael, "I'm holding you responsible for what happened today in court."

"You should know the information before you go shifting blame around," Lawson kept his head as he poured his glass, "the changes of charges were brought to us and upon reviewing we decided in a split decision on the best course of action. Two of us wanted to split the trial while two wanted to keep it together, Torres – Brandice compromised between the both sides."

"I want this information before it hits the bench," ordered Bael and Lawson laughed.

"I'm not your puppet or mole," scoffed the Lawman, "half this office is staring at us so I suggest you leave quietly."

"Lawson, mark my words, I don't like free roaming variables," warned Bael as he pushed off from the desk and walked away as the Grayditch Guards all stared.

Marshall Lawson opened his mouth surrounded by whiskers as he down the amber liquid. One of his men rushed into his room to see if he was all right. Lawson waived him off and chilled the crescent scar around his eye with bottom of the whiskey glass. He slowly put the glass down and looked again to his case files. The way of the gun was dying, making way for the way of justice through paper, _fucking paper_, he thought as he read the files.

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban had made contact with most of the delegations from the Commonwealth. Conversing with the delegation of the Vineyard Republic had been difficult. The limited genetic deviation of the island nation led to the population having chronic deafness, dumbness, and colorblindness. What they lacked in the ability to say through conventional spoken words they made up for with a signed language, physical movements, and the taste of their food and wine. While the translator did the talking for Newton and Ban, clearly the hospitality of the people was showcased in their open embraces and constant welcome to split bread.

The meals with the Vineyard Republic, while simple compared to what was expected in their home state, outclassed any meal the two Operatives had in their lives. The different tastes and texture of food made for the difference, along with the aesthetic presentation if not always color conscience. The wine, apparently the strongest cornerstone of the Vineyard Republic's economy was plentiful, different, and exquisite. The subtle differences in soil for each grape were noticeable, along with the addition of other fermented fruits like strawberries, pears, blueberries, apples. The occasional addition of spices like cinnamon, sugar, thyme, and cloves paired well with leached flavors of wood, charcoal, and occasionally leather. Having only partaken in pre-War wine that was dulled through radiation and bad storage, these new flavors offered by the Vineyard Republic awakened long dormant taste buds in Newton and Ban.

The delegation from the Plymouth Aristocracy was noticeably less friendly and more austere than the Vineyard Republic or Kingdom of Brandia. Their dress black and white cloth that they spun and wove from kept animals. The woman had their hair covered, while the men wore these hard brimmed hats. The two or three nobles that joined the expedition commented on how the rough clothes chaffed and that they were used to finer produced items. The leader of the expedition was a doctor of history, educated at Plymouth schools and the Institute.

Degory Bartlett had long hair that hung to his chin in wavy locks, a beard that sparsely covered his face and eyes that were sunken and overshadowed by his bushy brow. His forehead was long with his hairline receding back a little with his age. His neck ended with a pit between the muscles as it connected with his chest. Hannah Newton thought the man would have been more attractive with a shave and shorter hair, but she kept her words to herself. What had become apparent was that what was thought was never shared in Plymouth, unless on academics, and Barlett's life revolved around academics.

In his tent, candles made from animal fat gave a distinct smell along with dusty books, some new and most were older from before the war. On a spinning wheel with four metal 'v's that held four books open, Bartlett was able to read four texts at once. He also had a diorama set up in the tent that was a model of the pre-War Washington D.C. Bartlett said he was student of the American Empire, from birth to collapse. Likewise, he saw the former Capital as some type of Holy Grail for academia because the largest and most comprehensive public museums were located in Washington, D.C.

The diorama proved helpful for the Brotherhood of Steel, several Scribes were in the process of scanning the three dimensional model and allowed Bartlett limited access to the Arlington Archive. This satiated the historians hunger for knowledge. For the time being. But there was still one delegation the group had not met, those from Providence Plantations. Neighbors to the south of the Plymouth Aristocracy and the east of Kingdom of Brandia, neither of whom could say any word for the small nation, was the smallest delegation. Three members of the state came for the trip, along with their assorted staff that was primarily androids.

The two men on the trip were Roger Gaspee and West Slater. They accompanied the governess of Providence Plantations, Isabella Constantino. The encampment was five tents circled around a camp fire, but it served more as a living compound than separate quarters. Knight Ban had become accustomed to wearing the military officer uniform and switched from a crutch to a cane as it allowed more mobility. Operative Hannah Newton wore her power armor as a security measure for herself and for Ban. They entered the camp to the sound of metal hitting metal in loud clangs.

They wore cotton shirts, vests, and frilled cuffs. Their pants were tight fitting cloth that buttoned at the top of their bellies and wore leather boots that went up their calves to their knees. The two men were standing at odds with slim swords drawn. One had his hand on his lower back, the other used his free arm behind his shoulder and head as balance. Both men wore their hair in pony tails, one was black and went low between his shoulder blades while the other was chestnut brown and ended at his neck with some tendrils loose around his face. Their ponytails were tied back in colored ribbons; the man with black hair wore a scarlet red while the man with brown hair wore navy blue.

"Face me like a man, you cur," demanded the man with black hair, his arm behind his shoulder as he lounged the rapier forward.

The man with a navy blue ribbon deflected the blows easily as he stepped back holding his position on his lower back, "thrust and thrust alike Colonel Slater, but you'll find my legs adjust well to dry land as they see fit to any vessel!"

"This satisfaction was for first blood," replied the man as he lounged yet again to be parry away, "but I have a mind to take your head!"

"Gentlemen are we…interrupting?" Michael Ban raised an eye brow to the two fighters.

"Then the satisfaction shall be mine," replied the man with a blue ribbon as he slashed a cut on the others sword arm as he became distracted, he planted the sword in soil and offered his hand to the man.

Holding his arm to check for blood the man with the scarlet ribbon shook his head and stuck his sword in the soil to shake his opponents arm, "good show, Mister Gaspee."

The two men laughed and grabbed their waist clothes from some wooden chairs and put them on over their vests and shirts, "did we miss something?" Asked Ban, Newton shrugged.

"We had a disagreement and solved it in an honorable fashion," replied the man with the blue ribbon, "and you are the representatives of the Citadel, we are to take it?"

"I'm Knight Michael Ban and this is Knight Hannah Newton," introduced the black man with a jagged scar on his jaw line.

"Colonel West Slater, First Company," answered the man with a scarlet ribbon in his long black hair.

"Colonel Roger Gaspee, retired, First Company," said the other man with a navy blue ribbon in his chestnut brown hair, "current occupation as surveyor, cartographer, explorer, adventurer, tax collector, privateer, and escort to the Governess."

"And first class blow hard," teased Colonel Slater as he nudged Gaspee in the ribs.

"Pardon us, Colonels, but we were under the assumption that the Kingdom of Brandia provides the armed forces for the Commonwealth," said Newton through the metallic air filter.

"Blind me," exclaimed Slater, "is there something wrong with your voice?"

"It's the outside mic that makes my voice sound this way," replied Newton.

"Pardon this uncouth louse of a man," said Gaspee as pushed Slater away, "but to answer your question, Brandia does mobilize the armed forces. However, Slater and I were members of the merchant marines and protected mariners and fishermen from pirates and buccaneers. Most members of the Commonwealth naval forces were former merchant marines."

"Perhaps a little lesson on our outfit?" Slater said as he rubbed his arm.

"And bore them worse than Bartlett and his fanciful rants?" Corrected Gaspee with a shake of his head.

"You two are worse than a married couple," replied a woman emerging from a tent, she wore a loose dress that was rich purple and did little to hide that she was nearly nine months pregnant.

"We apologize for waking you, Governess," said Gaspee with a bow, matched by Slater.

"This little had the honor some time ago," she replied as she rubbed he pregnancy bump.

"Your grace, these are Knights Michael Ban and Hannah Newton," introduced West Slater.

"Delighted," she said, but seemed anything but.

"Governess Constantino, it is an honor and a privilege," said Newton through her mechanical voice, "we apologize for disturbing you in such a state. When is the little one due? No one informed us and we'd be more than willing to offer all medical assistance."

"Knight Newton, you're well-meaning is noted, but this is something the servants can handle," replied Isabella without a smile, "he is to be a son, my second."

"The Governor will surely be pleased," said Newton as the faces of Slater and Gaspee turned from awkward smiles to frowns.

Isabella just nodded and walked back into her tent, Ban reached for Newton's side and started to walk her away, "I apologize for my assistant. She is rather unobservant."

"Please do come back," replied Colonel Slater he turned to mumble to Gaspee, "after a long time."

"We look forward to seeing you," said Gaspee who said under his breathe, "and not hearing you talk."

Outside of the camp, Ban stared down Newton who couldn't help but reply, "what?"

"Are you kidding me? They were on a ship for two and half years," Ban as he smacked both sides of her helmet, "it takes nine months to produce a child!"

"So what?" Replied Newton before she did the math in her head, "oh…shit! So the Governor of Providence Plantations isn't the father?"

"You think?" Said Ban as he began to storm away.

"Where are you going?" Asked Newton apologetically.

"To practice with a Chinese sword," yelled back Ban as he hobbled to the Citadel, "hopefully I won't embarrass myself too much when I'm challenged to a duel and allow them satisfaction for your insult!"

Hannah Newton sulked, looking at the worn rocks and kicked on, "shit," she said as she felt guilty for her diplomatic faux pas.

Doctor Peter Williams Cushing had completed a preliminary surgery on the patient known as Lesko. It was nothing more than an expedition to route around the brain and see if his thoughts were correct. The damage from the fight constricted blood flow in the brain and led to the scientist not having the necessary means to action. Lesko's skull cap had been reattached along with his scalp. A course of several stimpaks were scheduled to accelerate healing so an emergency treatment of blood thinners could be administered and then regulated. Cushing was confident that Lesko would lead an able body life under the constant use of medication.

The report for Elder Lyons was not as positive. Doctor Cushing was almost certain that the anomaly he saw in the MRI, CAT, and PET was a blood clot that had moved from his leg wound to his brain. The main portion of the clot had stopped in the jaw but caused a block in the flow of blood to the brain. A smaller portion had continued onward and caused necrotic brain tissue. The need to remove the portion of the brain was important, but the result might have negative repercussions. The Brotherhood of Steel Scribes had already washed up and prepped for the surgery. Doctor Cushing was in the process of scrubbing his hands and arms, cursing the three hours he had spent in Lesko's head and the fatigue it has caused him.

He walked into the room and the Scribe known as Mendel assisted with putting his gloves on. Snapping the synthetic rubber produced by the vault requisition machine tight, Cushing checked with the Scribe administering the local anesthesia. The Scribe backed away as Cushing adjusted his cloth face mask and another maroon cloaked Scribe rubbed an antiseptic to where the first incision would be placed. Prior to removing the necrotic brain tissue, the major blood clot needed to be removed. A small opening would be made, segregating the clot in the vein and then it would be sucked out before being mended quickly. Mendel wiped Cushing's brow as he began the cut, opening the marked point between the jaw and the skull.

Moving quickly, the doctor clamped the vein leading to the Elder's brain and a Scribe began a clock. Five minutes maximum for the clot removal, anymore and Owyn Lyons could suffer irreparable brain damage. One swift cut into the vein after clamping it under where the scans marked the clot exposed the dead clunk of platelets. Using a small dropper, Cushing used negative pressure to remove the dead cells. A Scribe then washed the wound with warmed saline to clear before a precision medical laser mended the vein and the wound.

Cushing stepped back and gave a deep sigh as he cracked his fingers; Scribe Georgina Mendel leaned closer to him, "would you like me to proceed for you, doctor?"

"This is a lot different than messing with an animal's genetic code," Peter did not mean to be condescending but it came across that way.

"When you're ready doctor," said Mendel as she handed him a sterile scalpel and readied the bone saw.

Elder Lyons' head had been shaved with the necrotic area circled. Cushing began his incision and pinned the flap of skin to another part of Lyons' head. Using the bone saw, the doctor removed a perfectly circle portion of skull and grimaced at the site of dark grey black brain tissue. It was certainly dead brain tissue. The problem would be how much Lyons' emotions and logical thought would change with its removal both physically and as dead tissue. Sighing, he began soft delicate snips with a tiny scissor.

Removing small sections, piece by piece, with a pair of barbed hooks in a thin tube, Doctor Cushing paused every minute to check the patient's vitals. Two hours into the surgery, the Elder gave a gurgle that caused the surgeon to remove the tools. The Scribe checked the leader of his organization. Pulse and EKG were nominal, Cushing wiped his forehead. Performing any work on someone's brain was serious business, even for a train expert like Peter. Years of study and practical experience with the Enclave outposts at Raven Rock, Adams Air Force Base, and the remade City of Norfolk. Many men, women, children and even some mutants had been under Doctor Peter Williams Cushing's blade to right the wrongs that had occurred with their brain.

The doctor kept removing pieces of necrotic brain tissue to prevent it affecting healthy living tissue. The small tube with barbed hooks extended to remove the small cut pieces and deposited them in a tin. The necrotic cells did not make up more than a thimble sized amount of brain tissue, but that was more than enough. Half of the cells had been removed and Cushing continued to snip with the tiny scissors more. The maroon clad Scribe removed some tape from the Elder's eyes and shown a vault penlight to watch his pupil dilation.

"How is he?" Scribe Mendel asked as the male Scribe moved the light on and off the leader of his order's eyes.

"The Elder's pupils are still contracting, EKG is reading nominal with some over activity blips," replied the Scribe, "he may be coming out of the medical coma."

"Doctor, should we start a gas regime," Mendel asked while wiping Cushing's forehead of sweat.

"No, anything given to him might make the medical coma a persistent state," commented Cushing as he made a delicate snip.

"I have to disagree with your judge of the situation, doctor," said Mendel firmly.

The doctor stopped mid cut and turned look the female Scribe in the eyes, "I think I have more than enough help here, Scribe Mendel. You may go."

The other Scribes looked at her and then to the doctor; he looked her in the eyes and flatly replied, "Scribe Mendel, did you hear me? I said you can go."

"I've heard you, Doctor Cushing," replied Mendel, "whether I chose to accept your orders is another matter."

"You may stay if you wish, but do not question my authority again," Cushing turned back to his patient and began clipping away at the necrotic cells, "is that clear?"

"Like aqua pura," answered Mendel as the surgery continued.

After three more hours, Cushing declared the necrotic cells completely removed. As no major vessels were in the area of the brain, there was no need to cauterize the wound. The brain is a resilient and delicate organ, all that remained was to replace the skull, secure it, and mend the scalp. Unfortunately lasers could not be used to mend bones, the cells were too rigid unlike skin and blood vessels, and the use of an epoxy was needed to form a synthetic seal. With the seal in place and dry, Cushing left the incision to be closed by one of the Scribes. He left surgery with Scribe Mendel following him as he removed his gloves and tossed them in the vault incinerator.

The blood covering his operating room scrubs looked like some type of horrid art form. He stripped the papery outfit off and tossed it into the incinerator. He loosened the tie around his neck and yawned. Mendel had removed her face mask and tossed them into the incinerator as well.

"What do you plan to do now?" She asked while stretching and heard the satisfying sound of her joints cracking.

"I plan on taking a pill and sleeping for the next five hours," replied the doctor as moved to leave the locker room, "try waking the Elder Lyons in two hours. If there are any complications, you'll know where I am."

"What of Lesko," Mendel asked about the other patient.

"He should come around on his own, but I imagine both will need some time to ease out of their situation," affirmed the brain surgeon, "I think you can handle that, Scribe Mendel."

"Thank you," she said, more for the surgery he performed on her organization's leader; Doctor Cushing nodded and left to take the first few moments of shut eye he'd been able to have in a long time.

Operative Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors had stayed in the Republic for a few days. They were finding out more information concerning the unchartered northern frontier from the people of the Republic than the Centurions ever imparted to them. It was not the Centurions fault, in the opinion of Schieber and Bors, because of a mishap that occurred in the burnt-out ruins of place called Dickerson. The Centurions mounted a defense of the main building in least disrepair, several people died and others were captured by Super Mutants. No one in Sentinel Tristan's squad died or was captured and the people that survived blamed the Brotherhood of Steel. The 'dillo wear that protected the Centurions also marked them, along with their unique symbol, as those that were at Dickerson forever to be personae non gratae of the north.

News of the various factions of slavers, traders, explorers and settlements were welcomed. An old world road map of Maryland helped with placing locations. Their interest in the Independent City of Baltimore, the locals referred to it simply as the ICB, was due to the relative isolation the city was in. The guard they first met with combat armor under a trench coat was able to give highly detailed information on the city. Isolation of the ICB was due to a barrier created with the assistance of man and nature. Known as the Baltimore Beltway in the old world, now simply known as the Baltimore Barrier, was a monstrous construction of asphalt and concrete. When the bombs fell, the Beltway was packed with cars, trucks, and army vehicles that clogged every inch of asphalt in a giant traffic jam that has lasted over two hundred years. Over the decades, the concrete overpass deteriorated and fell to leave the Baltimore Barrier as an impassable wall of metal, stone, and ruins.

The Republic attracted people from the ICB, specifically those jaded with the system that grew in the isolated city. President Rosie offered the ability to start anew, literarily building from the ground up and out of the wasteland instead of on the ruins of the old world. People would ford their way through hostile tribes, dangerous water crossings and brutal factions in constant warfare to attain the hope provided by a repeating radio message broadcast from the Republic. Occasionally word of this new type of settlement, one where all were welcomed and a future was possible, made its way back to the ICB and yet more people kept on immigrating, leaving the factions they had joined out of survival. Now they were Republicans and away from twisted ruins, rusted metal and enclosed communities cutting away at each other in a war of attrition.

A beautiful sun hung in the air as Schieber walked about the settlement's main compound. Bors was out in the brick makers and Republican Guards, Rosie's son Bob was leading the guards that day. Schieber was joined by Shawna, Rosie's oldest daughter, whose mannerisms reminded him of his late sister, Octavia. She was able to be as tough as her brothers but preferred the study of an old book, while Octavia preferred to play classical music and poetry. Unfortunately Octavia had been brutally murdered by swampfolk and her fiddle has remained silent ever since. The presence of Shawna brought back good memories from Drayden, but pained Schieber greatly as well.

"So there are really large governments out there," asked Shawna as she walked to the school house.

"Well, the Brotherhood of Steel started on the west coast," pointed out Quin as the sun made him look like a white knight, "there is also a large government in the former state of California known as the New California Republic. But I'm locally born, out of Drayden, so I haven't seen much of big governments."

"Apart from the Enclave," nodded Shawna with her blonde hair, if it had ben jet black she would have been a dead ringer for Octavia, "but they were mostly just a radio station. Not like we actually saw them up close, just those strange flying machines on occasion."

Schieber stopped, "what direction did the vertibirds fly."

"Is that what you call the metal birds?" She asked quickly, "hmm, if only Dave had some of those then the Republic would be a lot larger. They headed to the east. Why do you ask?"

"Well, the Enclave were not just radio messages for the Brotherhood of Steel," Schieber was saying as he noticed Trip making its way to him, "we had to fight them on multiple occasions from the west to the east."

"Operative Schieber, local radio transmissions have been detected," said the robot, the device had been made visible to the Republic out of mutual trust.

"Excuse me, Shawna, I need to take this," Schieber turned around, his helmet in his hands, "describe the radio connection."

"The radio transmissions are personal communication devices used by Brotherhood of Steel Operatives for team based communication," answered the robot in a light female voice.

Schieber chewed his bottom lip, "patch me into listen," he said and put his helmet on.

The in helmet communication system crackled on and he heard a rough voice through the radio, "you know this is a horrible plan right? It's brighter than a fuckin' nuclear explosion out here."

There was some undecipherable spoken language and the same rough voice replied, "Zhao's right, black clothing and sunlight doesn't work too well."

"Franklin, listen to me, please. This…mission is a scare tactic, that's all," replied a familiar voice to Schieber, "all firing is to go high and to the sides, and that construction area is where we'll set up the incendiary satchel…"

Quin remembered the voice and turned to Trip, "contact Bors, immediately," he ordered.

"Knight Bors does not have his communications device active," replied the robot, "shall I physically approach?"

"As fast as you can," ordered Schieber, "and allow me to contact this active channel."

"You may utilize the communication channel for the other active devices," replied the robot as it hovered away.

Patching into the channel, Schieber talked into the radio, "you are using a secured Brotherhood of Steel communication channel, identify yourself."

There was a long pause on the line before the voice that didn't sound like it went through a meat grinder, "Schieber, is that you?"

"I repeat, this is a secured Brotherhood of Steel communication channel, identify yourself," ordered Quin as he made his way to the main gate.

"It's Roe, damn Schieber, your starting to sound like Steel Heart," replied the Operative on the other line using the code name for Star Paladin Bael.

Off in the distance at the crest of the largest hill, Quintus Schieber was able to see a figure in black standing straight up, there were a few other figures crouched low near him, "Dan, what's going on. Shouldn't you be near Megaton?"

"It's a long story, Schieber, but why are you at the Republic," replied Roe, he squinted his eyes and made out the shining bright armor.

"Broke off from Tristan, followed a radio signal. Dan, why are you here and who were those other people I heard on the line?" The operative asked of his colleague as, concern etched in his voice.

Roe sighed, "I'm expanding operations for Steel Heart," he lied, "doing an operations of Paradise Falls."

"Since when do we operate for slavers," asked Schieber as he paused and then practically yelled, "Roe, tell me what's going to happen here."

"Schieber, just…know we're not aiming to kill, we're just the diversion," said Roe as grimaced and stared at the men crouched beside him, "get as many people in the main compound in the safest place."

"Roe, what is going to happen, tell me now," pleaded Schieber as hit the chain link fence with his open palm in frustration.

"Schieber, I'm sorry but I'm going to give my men the code for radio silence," said Dan as he made three taps into the communication unit.

"Roe, answer me Roe, answer me!" Yelled the Operative from Drayden into his microphone to static, "you son of a bitch…Bors, can you hear me? Bors?"

"Bors here, Schieber is that you?" Said the seasoned knight.

"Get everyone inside, I just got word from Roe that there is going to be an attack on the Republic," replied Schieber as he turned around to see kids heading to school with Shawna, _shit_.

"Wait, why is Roe so far north?" Knight Bors was confused as he looked to see that the Republican Guards were not at the highest points of the hills.

"Said something about Bael asking him to get in bed with Paradise Falls," replied the Operative as he walked to the school house as the last kid got inside.

"Fucking shit, Bael would never do that," answered Bors, "Bael hates slavers, hates them more than the fucking Enclave."

There was a gunshot that rang out and hit the far side of the cistern. The tings and pings of other gun shots hitting the sides of buildings caused several residents to stare. Schieber thrust his arm forward with his finger pointed to the large building. He yelled out for people to get to cover. Some dove to the ground while others scrambled to the large house. Schieber radioed to Bors.

"I've got shots fired, it's starting," the Operative said, "I need to get the kids from the school house; the place is too far in the open and made of cheap tin."

"I'll get some men and swing your way," replied Bors as Quin heard an explosion in the back, "shit, it's starting here too."

"Help out there with Trip," said Schieber as he moved to the door, "shit, something else Roe said. The movement here to the compound is a diversion."

_Shit, I'm going to be getting the brunt of this attack_, thought Bors as he started pointing to holes in the defenses, "roger that, Quin."

Schieber kicked in the door of the school house to see Shawna and the kids ducked under desks, "I need to get you all out of here now."

"There are bad men outside," whimpered a little girl with a large bow in her hair.

"President mommy will get them," one of the boys had a brave face.

"Stay calm, I'm just going to need you all to form a single file line at the door and then make your way calmly to the large house," said Schieber, "Shawna can you organize the kids?"

"Yes, Quin, but where are you going to be," she asked.

"You need a shield, and that's what I'll be," he replied as he opened the door and guarded the entrance with his back to where the fire from Roe and his men were coming.

The kids were shaking and nervous as lined up at the door. Shawna stood in front of Schieber and her breathing was fast. Quin put an armored hand on her. She flinched and looked back at him with wide scared eyes as the impacts of bullets hit the side of the school.

"Stay calm and get them to walk in a single file in front of me to the door," he said his voice metallic but somehow warm.

A ping came from his armor as a bullet hit and ricocheted off his power armor. Shawna gasped and clenched her hands to the child in front of her. Schieber nodded and pointed forward with one finger. Shawna rubbed the child's shoulder and ordered them to walk forward. They walked in a single file, the Operative using his armor like shield as they kept walking forward. The little girl in the front opened the door to the large house and the kids started to file in. On the right hand side, a large explosion and fireball erupted from the building that would have been the medical center. Fire and black smoke reached high into the sky as the kids broke into chaos running for the door. Shawna fell to the side and the little boy in front of her fell too.

Schieber grabbed the little kid, "hold on tight and close," as he reached down and picked up Shawna, running forward holding onto both and got them through the door of the large house.

Knight Jamie Bors saw the explosion to the south and the black smoke rising up into the sky. The Republican Guards were exchanging fire with unseen enemies that were shooting high to move the Republicans in one direction. The men were losing the high positions on the hill and falling back to the brick makers. Bors ordered Trip to cover the guards as he trudged up the hill with his laser rifle. He held his fire until he could see the enemy; they were dodging between the groupings of rocks and firing in pairs of two from different locations to cause confusion.

A Republican Guard in mercenary gear turned to the left to fire his weapon as a pair ran to a grouping of rocks while another set behind him hit him with an energy pulse that shorted his brain synapsis. He dropped to the ground, unconscious. Three more guards fell to energy pulses causing them to lose consciousness. Breathing through the air filter hard, Jamie Bors took aim and fired off several shots as a pair switched position and sent three bolts through one slaver dressed in a merc grunt outfit and dropped him like a sack of meat.

"Gain ground, move forward!" Yelled out Bob as he reckless broke the lines and ran forward firing at the slavers diving behind rocks.

Bors shook his head, _that sad fool_, he thought as he hustled over to the President's oldest son, "get your guards and make a slow retreat, their looking to take prisoners not kill people."

"I have four guards down, these fuckers are gonna pay," replied Bob with a hot head, "men, Charge!"

Several of the Republican Guards in earshot of their second – in – command joined him in a vain sally forth against the slavers. Jamie ran after Bob, looking to protect the arrogant hot head from making a dumb mistake. Behind the clusters of rocks, Bob opened fired at several exposed slavers and wounded them badly. Another group of slavers took that time to jump up from an outcropping behind Bob, the son of the Republic's president turned around quickly and fired into the group. One slaver dropped dead, the other leveled her Chinese assault rifle and put two rounds in Bob's chest. Dropping to his knees with his gun falling from his grasp as his mouth moved like a fish out of water, the slaver walked up to him and pumped two rounds at point blank range into his skull. The result was leaving a bloody bag on his shoulders that not even his mother could recognize.

Bors shouldered his rifle and pounded four laser beams in to this slaver, dropping her dead. He ran up to the remains of Bob and nearly threw up in his helmet. He turned to see the six men that followed Bob over the hill fall to mesmetron energy blasts and several slavers scurrying forward to grab them. They were pulled forward behind the rocks, presumably where an explosive collar was fitted around their neck. Bors looked down and notice two of the slavers shot by Bob were squirming and hold in their guts, he walked forward and leaned down to them.

Pointing the laser rifle to them he started to sink his hand in one of their open stomach wounds. The slaver screamed out in horrible heart wrenching pain. The dirty slaver lying next to the other stared in horror with widening pupils that were shifting between being not in focus to acute pupil concentration. Bors lifted his armored hand from the guts covered in a thick red slime that was mix of blood, guts, and digestive material. He wiped his hand on the slavers shirt before he talked with them, swiveling his head to check his surroundings.

"Who authorized this attack," he asked, the metallic voice seething.

"Fuck…you," replied the slaver Bors put his hand in.

Jamie pointed his rifle to the head of the other slaver and pulled the trigger, smoke rising from the small hole as the body stiffened and then the muscles full relaxed, "I'll give you a quick death like your friend if you answer my questions. Otherwise it will take…two or three days," he said as he moved the laser rifle to the slavers head.

The slaver grabbed the rifle pulling it to his face, crying in deep pain, "fucking do…it."

Bors pulled his gun away and rested his free hand to the slavers open wound, his middle finger and ring finger slowly moving into the open stomach and intestine wound, "I'll ask again, who authorized this attack."

The slaver hollered out to attract another companion, Jamie leveled his rifle to the slaver and fired three bolts quickly; the slaver curious to save his collaborator fell dead with a tight grouping of laser wounds around his heart. Bors sighed and began to sink his whole hand into the wounded slavers wound. Spreading his hand deep in the man's entrails and torn up organs, a boney cord made it around his fingers and he grasped it. Pulling the man's spine cause him more pain, to the point of urinating in his pants, leaving a puddle in the dirt. Bors looked deep into the slaver's eyes.

"Who authorized this attack," he asked one last time, seeing the man's eyes try to refocus through horrendous pain.

The slaver coughed up blood, in a rough voice he said, "Eu..eu..eulogy," as he began to gasp.

Bors let go of the man's spine and shook out the blood gunk over his body. Licking his lips inside his helmet he sighed deeply and walked away. The slaver yelled out to him, crying and pleading. Jamie turned around and fired a shot an inch from the slaver's head. The dirty enslaver of men gasped, hoping to welcome the sweet darkness of death but realized he did not receive his gift. Yelling out in rage as the Knight turned and saw the dust trails of the slavers and their captured goods leaving in multiple directions he cursed. Slavers were smarter than before and were going to meet up at a rally point or move on directly to Paradise Falls from different directions so no posse could chase them.

Sighing he continued to walk down the hill as the remaining Republican Guards gathered near the brick makers. Many brahmin had escaped the corral and trampled some barley out of fear from the gun shots. The ranch hands were goading them into the pen while the farmers were collecting the fallen barley to use the young grain for food. Jamie Bors turned on his communication unit.

"Schieber, how are you guys doing in the main compound?" He asked, still watching the billowing black smoke.

"We're fine, the two guards at the main gate were killed, but everyone else was saved," the operative said with a melancholic tone.

"We're seeing a lot of smoke still," Bors said as he motioned for the Republican Guards to circle up, "what was that explosion."

"Fire bomb in the med center," said Schieber over the radio, "how are you lot doing?"

"We were hit hard, we're going to do a head count," said Bors, "but prepare the President for bad news."

"Was the attack that bad," asked the young Operative.

"Yes," said Jamie with a frown, "but more to the point, the President's son was killed."

"Shall I tell her," Schieber was now really concerned for the future of the Republic.

"I'm going to bring him back to her, but you will need to restrain her when things get…emotional," the Knight said.

The only response he received from Quintus Schieber was, "roger that."

Turning to the Republican Guards, Jamie Bors took control of the situation, "how many men were taken?"

One of the guards counted off those that were still around, "we lost eleven men, including Bob."

"That means ten men were taken as slaves," Bors looked at the remaining nine guards in their dirt covered faces, "Bob was shot dead by a slaver team; he was able to kill several before he was gunned down."

"Where did the slavers come from?" One of the guards asked.

"We'll examine the bodies that are left," replied Bors, he removed his helmet, sweat making his hair cling to his face, "first and foremost, we'll need to return Bob's body to President Rosie."

The men nodded and followed Bors up the hill to the rock outcropping where Bob's human shell lay. A Republican Guard removed his trench coat and wrapped the body in it tightly. Another put their overcoat on top of the body to obscure what remained of the head. Bors took out his microfusion cell and put it under the body; three other men removed their ammo clips and put their weapons under the body as well. Eight men, one holding the weapons' stock and the other holding the weapons' muzzle, lifted Bob's body up to chest level and began to proceed down the hill to the main compound. The Republican Guard that had shared information on the ICB found the still squirming slaver, barely alive. Stepping on the murder's neck slowly, he watched as the man struggled for air before his lips turned blue and he died of asphyxiation.

Some of children were running around the compound, pointing out the bullet holes to each other. Some of the mothers were chasing them; Shawna was in no position to police them. She was sitting in a chair outside shaking and pale. Schieber was directing the people on gathering sand to stop the smoldering flames in what was to be the future medical center. Two guards that were at the front gate of the compound were dead and their bodies had been moved to the barracks, away from the children. Bors ordered Trip to assist in putting out the embers as Schieber walked with the men and Bob's body. Everyone in the compound stopped moving stared at the body being carried up to the large house.

The door was held open and the eight men walked forward and proceeded to lay Bob on the table. Removing their weapons from under the body, the Republican Guards reloaded and secured their weapons while Bors just latched it to his front. His right hand was still stained red with the slaver's blood and gore. He nodded to President Rosie's office and one of the guards went to her door. She followed shortly to see Knight Jamie Bors holding himself up by his hands against a table. Quintus Schieber was standing in the hallway.

"How bad was the attack in the fields?" She asked as she looked at the body wrapped in two trench coasts.

"We lost ten men to slavers," reported a faithful Republican Guard.

"And one death, madam President," said Schieber as he looked at the Republican Guards with a nod.

"Where's Bob, why is he not telling me this himself," she demanded as she took a step forward with trepidation.

The Republican Guards all had sad looks on their faces and Schieber and Bors frowned, "madam President…"

"No…it can't…no!" she said as she moved forward to the body trying to draw the trench coat off of Bob's face.

Schieber put an arm out to grab the Republican President, "madam President…"

Rosie swatted his arm away and moved to the body and Bors grabbed the President by her shoulders, "Rosie, you do not want to do this…what's on that table is not your son. It's just his earthly form, what made up your son…his essence…has moved on. I of all people know how you feel," he leaned in close so only she could hear him as he whispered, "you are a strong woman, a leader, and your people need you to forge through this attack and major loss…both personal and collectively…you must show your strength."

President Rosie held back her tears and nodded. She walked forward and put her hand on the trench coat. Bors held his hand on her shoulder to remind her that she didn't need to see her son like this. Rosie pulled back the trench coat to reveal what looked like a bloated bag of skin that was dark purple and filled with fragments of brain, skull and blood. The one piece that was still visibly undamaged on his face was his right lower jaw; Rosie graced her hand on that one piece of skin. She turned to the assembled room with steely eyes and a gulp in her throat.

"Get Jessica, Wyatt and Donovan to my office," she ordered and pointed to Schieber and Bors, "you two in my office as well."

President Rosie's office had five other people in it when she began the meeting, she turned to the two members of the Brotherhood of Steel, "I cannot stand for this attack to go unanswered."

"We understand your position, madam President," replied Schieber, "but we are not able to commit anything without official approval from the Citadel."

Rosie nodded and turned to the man known as Donovan, a brick maker and one of the architects helping to shape the settlement of the Republic who wore coveralls and a bandana, "what can be done for the med center?"

"The fire bomb surprisingly did little damage, nothing in the structure is compromised," Donovan's voice was harsh but understandable, "for safety's sake, I'm going to put up a secondary wall of wood or tin with supporting struts on the roof."

"Good, before we move forward with the medical center, we need to create better defenses," commented Rosie, "I want you to draw up a plan and have it on my desk in a day."

Donovan nodded, Rosie turned to Jessica, "I need a new second – in – command, the job is yours should you take it."

"Who would replace me as head guard of the compound?" The woman with short hair, a mercenary uniform and ten millimeter pistol asked of the President.

"You'll be taking on both roles," answered Rosie with firmness, "Wyatt, can you use your contacts back in ICB for supplies or recruiting more people?"

"I can slip back in through Curtis Bay," replied the man with combat armor under his trench coat and blood still on his boot from stomping on slavers neck; he was a light skinned African American, "but if we start to actively recruit…there might be repercussions…"

"As long as we can avoid an outright attack until we can build defenses it will be acceptable," replied Rosie, "I need to plan a burial. If y'all excuse me."

Wyatt and Donovan gave their condolences, Bors stepped forward as the others left, "President Rosie, actively going after these slavers would be the wrong thing to do at this time."

"My goal is the security of this town and the safety of these people, is that clear," Rosie pounded her finger on to the desk top.

"The losses in people today have been overwhelming, and while gearing for defense is fine," reasoned the seasoned Knight, "moving to an outright act of aggression even in retaliation would weaken you more at this point. Ten people were taken today; three others were killed, including your son. That pain does not go away…ever. Not even when you stand over the murdering fuck that led to his death and put two rounds in his head…it doesn't fill the empty hole in your heart," _it just makes it easier to accept your eventual death_, he thought to himself.

"I'd like you to go back to the Citadel and put forward our need of assistance," said Rosie, the words Bors imparted still floating around her head, "hopefully you can come back with something."

"Wyatt has contacts to get into the ICB," asked Schieber and President Rosie nodded, "we can definitely convince our superiors of something…as long as we're able to use your contacts to gain access to the ICB."

"That will be up to Wyatt on whom and how many he'd be willing to take across the Baltimore Barrier," she said and offered her hand to the members of the Brotherhood of Steel, they shook her hand.

Schieber said, "we'd also like you to know that the Brotherhood of Steel extends its deepest condolences on your personal loss," as Bors nodded.

He embraced the President in a one arm hug, a gesture of solidarity between two parents that had outlived a child, "stay strong for yourself, your children, and your people. Do not let this settlement slip into a tyranny bent on revenge against those that have wronged you."

Rosie sighed but made no movement to promise, agree or disagree with Knight Jamie Bors statement. The two Operatives walked out of the large house, bidding farewell to those that they had met and befriended. Over the radio they recalled Trip and began the long march back to the Citadel. When they were a few miles away from the Republic, they talked frankly between each other.

"We need to report Roe's actions to Star Paladin Bael," Schieber regretted that the only thought on his mind was fleshing out why three people lay dead and ten now captured in slavery.

Bors nodded in agreement, "the raid was funded my Eulogy Jones and Paradise Falls. I don't like the smell of this one bit."

They looked to the horizon and continued to walk to the south west. The plan was to make a stop by Arefu or Big Town and then continue all the way down to the Citadel. News of the attack needed to be conferred to Bael and Yearling. Likewise, crosschecking military locations with the information gained by Shawna would help uncover some of the Enclave's secrets. The Republic could be a strong ally for the Brotherhood of Steel.

Operative Daniel Roe was sitting in the main planning room at the Temple of Paradise. Samuel Warrick was drinking with Leroy Walker and some of his men. Carolina Red was notoriously sober, waiting till she could cash in her cargo before joining in the celebration. She'd drink, fuck, and gamble back at Paradise Falls. But she'd only do that with money in hand.

Red tossed a pouch of caps over to Roe, "you're payment."

Roe scooped up the pouch and stood up to walk out and Carolina Red just stared at him, "what no thank you?"

Daniel gave a half smile and nodded before he left, Carolina Red simply turned back to the others and mumbled, "brahmin fucker."

Dan joined the ghoul guards from Crowley's casino. Before meeting up with them, he had removed the caps he needed to pay off his debt. He tossed the pouch to them and they split the caps among themselves. The ghoul with a white mustache named Franklin looked to Roe. Dan sat down next to him around the fire with the other men.

"We leave in the morning to return to Springvale," said Roe as he looked to each of the ghouls, "thank you."

"Working with you wasn't bad," said Franklin, the closest compliment he'd given to the Operative.

"Have you guys ever thought of being a mercenary group," asked Roe out of curiosity.

"You do what you need to survive," Franklin breathed from his nose making his white mustache flutter, "we aren't immortal, kid."

"What if I wanted to form a merc group with you guys," Roe rubbed his chin.

"You'd have to buy our security contracts from Crowley," answered Franklin as he loaded ammo into a magazine, "I have eighteen more years on my contract."

"Eighteen years?" Daniel Roe exclaimed.

"Twenty years is nothing for us," Franklin furrowed his brow, "why don't you get some sleep, kid?"

"Yea," _if only it was that easy, I…helped slavers…fuck…_, he thought as he rested his head on his rucksack and closed his eyes.

A/N: To explain the skipping around from group to group, simply put this story is very fluid. Groups progress in story lines outside of what has been written. Instead of following these groups around twenty-four/seven, of which most of the time they are doing boring things like surviving, paper work or scouting; they are relevant when they intercede upon the lives of people that make up BIOS. As the first intelligence community in the Capital Wasteland, BIOS does affect the relationships between settlements and factions (systemic level); along with the populations of those settlements (domestic level); and leaders of government, commerce, and humanitarian rights (individual level). The term controlled anarchy would be the best way to describe the relationships at the moment between factions, peoples, and individuals.

I apologize for how long it took me to produce this chapter. Please remember to read and review.


	10. Of Sons and Fathers

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 10.) Of Sons and Fathers

Court had returned to session, the defendant Juan Alvarado was not thrilled with being charged with the premeditated attempt of murder on Doctor Weston Lesko. His arm, the still paralyzed left limb, was tied to his belt by his wrist and a hardened immobilizer down his upper arm. Without the sling, Alavardo's motions caused his arm to swing around out of his control. The year two thousand two hundred and seventy – nine was not a good year for the Rivet City Hispanic boy turned Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

Lolli Pop was not having a good year either. He had talked at length with Scribe Elizabeth Jameson about pleading guilty to save his friend and colleague from the court system. She was adamantly against this way of proceeding, assured them that the push for a harsher chargers would actually blow up in Notley's face. Pop was unsure of how to proceed but trusting his superior's judgment agreed with little enthusiasm. He hoped "plan B" would not need to be implemented. Pop was prepared for the worse, but hope by some divine grace that he'd be saved.

Jameson was glowering at Notley, he sat at the counter in pristine condition. The man acted like he acted like he pissed aqua pura and crapped caps, his chest puffed like a vulture watching a wounded man in the middle of the wasteland. He was an opportunist and now the proctor for the Brotherhood of Steel's order of the Quill knew the type of man she was dealing with in the future. The Marshall's Men had limited the people entering the courtroom to seventy – five, still over the limit of seats but the now fifteen man special unit felt it was acceptable.

No one, other than the Marshall's Men, were allowed weapons in the courtroom. All those that refused to relinquish their weapons were not allowed to attend. The Marshall's Men known as Bailey walked into the court and asked everyone to rise as the justices all entered and took their seats. Everyone was allowed to sit after the justices sat.

"We will now proceed to the arrangement process," started Sheila Torres – Brandice, the recently remarried first lady of Grayditch, "the People of Grayditch against the Brotherhood of Steel members Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop, the defendants are charged with unlawful entry of a private residence, theft of private property, and the attempted murder and incapacitation of Doctor Weston Lesko. How do you plead?"

Jameson nudged Alvarado, "not guilty, your honors," he said firmly.

The ten eyes of the judges turned to Lolli Pop, "and how do you plead," asked Torres – Brandice with impatience.

Lolli Pop was still a young boy, only a few years out of Little Lamplight he had been hindered in the growth of his maturity, "I…I…um, I…," public speaking was knew him.

"Out with it," ordered Judge Randall, "or do you have a stammer?"

"No…s – sir," replied the operative, "I do…do…not ha – have a stamm – mm – mer. I plead – d not guil – t – ty," Pop tried to end on a firm note.

"Very well, as no plea deal has been made yet, we will meet tomorrow for your opening comments and the exchanges of a witness list," stated Torres – Brandice as a matter – of – fact to inform the public more than the counsels, "are you prepared for the arraignment of the People of Grayditch versus Galvin Cobb, defense counselor?"

"I am, your honors," stated Jameson as she switched files and motioned for Alvarado and Pop to sit and Cobb to rise.

The former commander of a Talon Company base in Takoma Industrial park refused to stand. The Mashall's Men guarding the prisoners grabbed Cobb by the elbow and lifted him upward. The Judges were not pleased by his actions. People in the public gallery clamored at realizing who this man was in front of them: the fabled Galvin Cobb, the Fool of Takoma.

"Mister Cobb, this court demands respect," said Torres – Brandice with a sour look.

"Respect is earned, not demanded cheaply with bland words," answered Cobb with a sneer, pulling his arm from the Marshall's Men.

"I would advise your client to hold his tongue if he would remember his future is in our hands," said Joost Van Dyke with cold dark eyes.

"She neither controls my future, not you and your fancy panel," he replied sticking a finger to his chest, "only I control my future."

"One more outburst Mister Cobb and a gag order will be in place," threatened Judge Randall, Susan LaCroix and Marshall Lawson were notoriously silence.

"Understood, your honors," Jameson inwardly moaned at her client's action, "Mister Galvin Cobb pleads not guilty by way of coercion."

"Your honors, the counsel has stolen the words out of her client's mouth," objected Notley as he half stood up, "and the situation surrounding the public murder of Knight Anthony Jenson of the Brotherhood of Steel did not have direct coercion for Mister Cobb, a season veteran of _Talon Company_."

"Your honors, I did not realize we were making opening statements so soon," quipped Elizabeth Jameson dryly.

"The defense counselor is correct, Mister Notley, you will have a time for an opening statement. But today is not the appropriate time," said Torres – Brandice, the main voice of the court, "can the defense provide adequate evidence for their plea?"

"Yes, your honor, I believe we can," answered Jameson with a glance at Cobb.

"Very well, we shall hear opening statements in two days along with an exchange of the witness lists," said the head of the court, Torres – Brandice, "until that time, we will be adjourned for the day. I would like to remind all present in the gallery that no questions can be asked of the defendants and judges while the trial is underway. We will begin the day after tomorrow when the sun is in the first quarter of the sky, also known as ten fifteen in the morning to our non – tribal attendees. Lastly, I would like to thank the Marshalls for their protection and maintenance of order in the courtroom. Court is adjourned."

J.R. ran through the hallways of Vault 101 to make his way to the small living area that he and Susie shared. He opened the door to an empty room. A perplexed look crossed his face as he threw his rucksack in the corner of the living room. He searched for a note but didn't find one. Exiting the living area he traveled down the halls to the office of Doctor Cushing.

On his way, a woman he vaguely knew from introductions made by Susie and Amata was in the hallway. He couldn't remember her name but did know that the Vault was small enough of a community that everyone knew each other's business. He moved towards her and asked where Susie was located. She informed J.R. that Susie was in the armory. J.R. briefly thanked her and beat feet in that direction.

Susie Mack was sitting on a metal bench lacing up her boots and checking her security armor to make certain it was on tight. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail and her usual porcelain skin was slightly blue and green hued. There were several other men and women in the armory preparing in a similar fashion to Susie. J.R. stormed in just as she began to lace up her left boot.

"I…got your message," he said sheepishly, as if he needed to walk on eggshells near the woman he impregnated.

"What are you doing here?" Asked the blonde girl with a raised eyebrow, "I didn't want you to drop everything and see me."

"You know why I'm here, Susie," J.R. said as he looked all the other vault dwellers in the armory suiting up.

Susie looked to them as well, "meet me outside in two minutes," she said flatly.

J.R. nodded because he didn't want to make a scene; Susie watched him walk out and finished dressing up. The BIOS Operative was waiting nervously in the hallway as Susie walked out wearing the padded vault security suit and a blue bandana around her neck with a sling back vault – tec bag on her shoulder. J.R. didn't like the way this looked, a questioning expression crossed his face. The blonde vault dweller sighed.

"Are you seriously going out there in…your condition," he asked moving close to her, his hands searching for her hips through the padded armor.

"Please, just, I don't want to be…touched right now," she said hold his hands up to push J.R. away, "and yes, I'm going with a small group to Friendship Heights, I'm not too far into the pregnancy yet."

"But you shouldn't be made to go," he said, Colin Moriarty Junior's protective side coming out, "doesn't Amata know of your…condition?"

"Jesus Christ, Colin! I'm pregnant…it's not a disease or condition, there is another life growing in me," Susie explained in indignation, "and I'm going because they have little children there in need of care and education. I'm going to try and set up a curriculum with their leader Boadicea and their appointed teachers."

"Surely someone else could do this, you could stay here to teach. It's safer here then out there," he was worried for her and their unborn child, "I want to keep you safe… I love you, Susie Mack."

Susie smiled and laughed at the same time, "and I love you, Colin Moriarty Junior, but I don't need a protector."

"Then let me marry you," J.R. asked he attempted to move in closer and Susie pushed him back again.

"No," she said with her smile turned into a frown, "I don't need a protector, Colin, I'm able to protect myself. But we're at two different points right now. You work for the Brotherhood of Steel and my work is for the Vault…I don't want to worry or have the child worry all the time."

"I'll quit the Brotherhood," he interrupted as he moved close again, "I'll work for the Vault, my family is more important to me…."

The rest of his words were muffled by Susie's hand on his mouth, "don't say such things. The Brotherhood of Steel needs people like you. I'll always be your Susie, Colin, and I like the child to know his or her father…I'm just not ready for the house and white picket fence, neither of us are ready."

J.R. raised an eyebrow, "what's a white picket fence?"

"It's a saying some of us have, from back in the old days," Susie sighed as she leaned in and kissed his lips, "please write to me at Friendship Heights."

"I will," replied J.R. as he closed his eyes and held Susie close to him kissing her lips passionately, "I'll write you every day."

"You big softie," she teased and nibbled on his lower lip.

A man in a vault security outfit stood at the armory door and cleared his throat, "Mack are you ready to move out?"

J.R. slowly backed away and Susie straightened herself out, "Yes, Officer Gomez, I'm ready."

Colin Moriarty Junior held her hand and pumped it twice as she walked away with the rest of the Vault exploratory team. Susie smiled back at him, the blue green tint still in her face. He couldn't help but smiled back and wished he could do more, wished he could be her guardian angel and protective shield. J.R. was going to be a father, and his only hope was that he would be a better one than his own dad was to him. All Colin Moriarty Junior could do was try.

Scribe Georgina Mendel sat in the post operation room that now held Doctor Weston Lesko and Elder Owyn Lyons. Lesko had pulled through surgery well and was awake. He was sitting up in the vault-tec hospital bed, no glasses on, as he tried to get the last fuzzy feeling out of his head. Doctor Cushing forbade him from over exertion on his brain while testing occurred. The vault-tec holotapes helped to past the time, currently he had a Vera Keyes holotape in the monitor.

Elder Lyons was awake as well, but not fully up. He was responsive to drinking fluids from a straw but little else. It gave Mendel hope that in time he'd be a lot better, but the loss of brain tissue could mean Elder Lyons was different. Now he needed nursing care till he was ambulatory and sentient. Post operation testing needed to be conducted, Cushing had put the Scribes in charge of collecting data. A maroon clad Scribe was talking with Weston Lesko to collect such data.

"Weston, can you remember these three words," asked the male Scribe, "spoon, bayside, and factory."

"Shh…can't you see I'm watching Vera Keyes?" Lesko's voice was shrilly and nasal, making the skin of the Scribe crawl and a grimace paint his face.

"Doctor Lesko, this is about your health," reprimanded the Scribe, "which is far more important than long dead singers and actresses."

"Immortalized on film and holotapes for all to revel in the beauty of the old world," Lesko rejoined with a slight pang of nostalgia to an era he was two hundred years removed from, _I haven't had down time like this in years, how annoying_.

"Doctor Lesko, do you need me to repeat the three words," the Scribe, like most of his colleagues, were annoyed with the Grayditch scientist.

"You don't think I can remember three simple words like spoon, bayside, and factory? You're more of a twit than I originally thought," Lesko's voice wasn't a scream but it was elevated, "perhaps if you asked me to recite all the sensory organs of the _camponotus pennsylvanicus_, then maybe, just maybe I might trip up because of their similarities to _formica rufa_. With that said, will you and your fellow troglodytes leave me be?"

The Scribe gave up in frustration and anger. Bedside manner with Lesko required saintly level of patience. Another Scribe walked into the post operation room. Lesko threw a cup of water at the female Scribe when she got in front of the monitor. She moved a little quicker to get to Mendel and out of the post – op room.

"Operative J.R. is in the Vault, ma'am," said the Scribe to Mendel, "do you need to see him?"

Mendel thought, _this was an unscheduled visit to the Vault_, "no, no need to see us. However, let me write out a message and procure some file copies that need to be sent to Grayditch."

A few minutes later, Scribe Georgina Mendel handed the other Scribe a sealed envelope and bound folders. Asking one of the vault security staff where J.R. was gave his current location. He was sitting in the living quarters he shared with Susie. She had just left for a trip to Friendship Heights with no return date given. J.R. was just getting his items in order, his hands lingering on Susie's vault suits when there was a buzz from the entrance.

He walked into the living room and opened the door to see a maroon clade Scribe, "you lot don't waste any time."

The Scribe seemed unfazed by the rebuff, "your unscheduled appearance was certain to get noticed, Operative. We've been stationed at Vault hundred and one for around a week now. We've been able to save both Lesko and Elder Lyons."

"That will be good news for Alvarado and Pop," stated J.R. as he grabbed a piece of clothing form Susie's draw.

"Scribe Mendel wants you to deliver the medical reports to Scribe Jameson," the woman handed over the folders and sealed note to J.R.

"Will do," replied J.R. as he put the folders and note into his rucksack, "I guess there is no better time to start than the present."

The Scribe nodded, knowing there was no more need for words with the Operative. He walked out of the Vault and into the harsh sun. The air was chiller and the wind speed had begun to pick up for this time of the season. Directly sunlight warmed the flesh but bombarded it with radiation.

The streets of Springvale were crowded with ghouls, Moriarty's guards, and wasteland travelers. Ashkelon's prison served as a citadel against the group still loyal to Moriarty. The warden's forces were growing stronger daily and began to push their boundaries out of their sunken valley. Crowley's Games and Cards were protected from the outside by Askelon's forces while his own personal guards maintained order inside the casino.

J.R. walked down the intersecting rood with Springvale's Main Street, the Holy Light Monastery was to his right. Experience with caravans and the Brotherhood of Steel allowed him to spot specific and familiar faces easily in crowds. His fellow Operative, Zachary Zimm, was easily spotted in the crowd and he looked nervous. The bandage was still on his face to let his cut cheek heal properly.

"Heard you were nearby," said Zimm, his words clear because the stitching was tight and secured.

"News travels fast," replied J.R. blandly as he cast a look all over the street to make the faces of his father's men.

"I know you're here and so do they," Zimm indicated Moriarty's guards as the two Operatives worked together, "your dad is riled up and has asked to see you."

"I have a letter and some folders that need to make it to Scribe Jameson," J.R. said as he passed the said files and sealed note to the dark skinned Operative, clasping his shoulder in a tight squeeze, "Elder Lyons lives."

"I can't leave you to your father's plans without back up," commented Zimm as he packed the items in his rucksack to protect them.

"My father will not kill me today," answered J.R. firmly, "make sure that those folders reach Jameson, it will help Juan and Lolli."

Zimm did not like leaving his teammate in harm's way, especially the sadistic bastard that ordered his cheek cut, "steel be with you, J.R."

Colin Moriarty Junior nodded as Zimm made his way to Grayditch. J.R. began to follow the path to Megaton. He held his breath as he walked through the gate into the sunken city. Making his way to the saloon, J.R. could see his dad watching his approach; the prodigal son had returned.

Captain Sebastian Cabot of the _Brandian Commonwealth Service Ship Law & Order_ sat in his office aboard his frigate. On his desk laid several papers but the Captain's attention was directed to the picture frame that held the images of his son and wife. Old navigation charts were laid out on the desk, it had been his duty to map the Potomac as his crew traveled up the old river. All of the old world's charts were useless because shorelines and under water currents had changed in the Great War. Part of their expedition, including the pilgrimage, was to map the coastline to increase trade routes, travel, and possibly even gain access to former locations of Europe and Africa.

The _BCSS Justice_, _Law & Order_, and _Amicus Curiae_ (the sister escort frigate of the _Law & Order_) were the spear head to further naval exploration. The use for a navy became apparent in the Enclave – Commonwealth War with the high seas battle of Providence Plantations merchant marines and the mobilized Enclave marine units. The Kingdom of Brandia sought to maintain hegemony of military might in the Commonwealth and pushed for the creation of the first joint navy. The Providence Plantations merchant marines still exist but in a reduced capacity to resupply the joint naval force and costal forts.

Rear Admiral Darion Nelson was a Providence Plantations defector to the Kingdom of Brandia. He shared his old mariner experience and cosmological studies to increase the joint naval force under Brandian control by the creation of a Naval Academy. The Rear Admiral gained position, title and a small lordship in the only costal town with adequate ship making industry, Marblehead. Providence Plantations had refitted and made the _Justice, Law & Order, _and _Amicus Curiae_ with Brandian money and old military vessels.

Using a compass and ruler, Captain Cabot recorded the changes to the Potomac. The once mighty river had dried out, the increased silt build up risked larger vessels and the shoreline had changed as the Chesapeake claimed all earth up to the main city. The parks of Washington D.C. were gone, taken by erosion. A Warrant Officer walked into the Captain's office and stood at attention.

"Permission to speak, Warrant Officer," nodded Cabot as he put the compass down.

"Captain, Communications Officer Bell of the _Justice_ is on the line," informed the officer, "CO Bell wishes to communicate to you privately."

"I'll take the call here, Warrant Officer," Cabot stood up and straightened his uniform and hat, "dismissed."

The WO nodded and turned about face to leave. Cabot opened the terminal on his wall, a keyboard flipped down as a monitor revealed itself from behind a panel. The face of Communications Officer Bell came on the screen; Cabot knew that Bell could see him as well. Comm Officer Bell was a younger man than Captain Sebastian Cabot with shockingly red hair.

"Good 'morrow, Captain Cabot," greeted Bell.

"Good 'morrow, Communication Officer Bell," replied Sebastian Cabot, "what report do you have from Rear Admiral Nelson?"

"The Rear Admiral and staff have determined the source of the energy signatures," answered Bell slowly, "you are to back up naval operations in the Chesapeake by rejoining the _Justice_ and leaving the high ranking civilians ashore."

"The _Law and Order_ is currently in a holding position made by displacement fields erected by the local government," replied Cabot with a frown, "we will not be able to assist currently in Chesapeake operations. Perhaps more information will help in our ability to gain leave of the Citadel's dock."

"I am forwarding you the reports complied by the Rear Admiral and his staff," Bell looked down at his keyboard and submitted files to the _Law & Order_ for Cabot to view, "this information is deemed for Commonwealth Eyes Only."

"Information packet received," confirmed Cabot as he looked into the digital rendering of Bell's eyes as the screen was split to view the documents, "what is the word on the report," he asked browsing through the hundred page file.

"The energy source comes from an Atlantis Class battleship," answered Bell as he bit his lower lip, "we intercepted radio messages and data transfers, all information points to Enclave."

"Shall I relay information to Ambassador Schultz," questioned the Captain as he clenched his hand to prevent it from shaking, _an Atlantis Class battleship…that is a floating city…sixteen nuclear powered reactors allowing it to exceed sixty knot speeds and over double the size of a Nimitz Class aircraft carrier; only three had been made, one for the Pacific theater, another for the Panama canal, and one for the Atlantic theater. _

"Yes," answered Bell with a nod, "good day Captain Cabot, and good seas," the transmission ended as the picture faded to a tiny pinpoint of light and then off.

Operative Anna LaCroix was training with Knight Captain Galeas. Bandages on her neck and hands made the handle of the blade fumble in LaCroix's hands. Galeas had a few cuts as well, mostly to her shoulders and forearms. They circled each other deflecting blow – for – blow quickly. John Harkness opened the door to watch the sparing.

The two women didn't even turn to look at him. Harkness sat on one of the desks pushed against the walls. Scribe Actaeon was not with them; instead he spent his free time alone studying the Arlington Archive. Actaeon had withdrawn into himself in the last few days. Harkness was still writing up the histories of the Commonwealth, Brandia, Plymouth, Vineyard, and Providence. He had also spent some time on War Castle and the Railroad.

When Galeas subdued LaCroix, the android clapped slowly, "good job."

Galeas grunted and helped LaCroix up, "you see combat in the Commonwealth?"

"Among other places," acknowledged the android.

"Let's see what you can do with a blade," Galeas tossed him a knife.

John Harkness left the knife on the table as he walked into the center of the circle. He didn't stretch or move. He remained still as Galeas circled him, her guard released as he didn't have a weapon. Harkness just stood there and observed Galeas through his sensors. She moved forward from his left and Harkness turned and held her wrist.

Knight Captain Galeas was shocked by the strong iron grasp of the android. He quickly disarmed her of the blade and tossed it next to his. Galeas got her hand away and performed a low sweeping kick as Harkness fell backwards and rolled to avoid the falling heel and leg of the Knight Captain. Flipping up quickly to his feet he balanced himself and calculated the next flurry of moves from Galeas based on her muscle tension and biometric data.

She punched forward and Harkness moved the closed fist and arm away with his forearm. The android then blocked a knee from the Knight Captain with his own leg and deflected a left hook with his forearm. Galeas punched forward and the android countered her move and slide behind her, locking her arm and head together in a tight embrace. Galeas struggled against her sparring opponent who tightened his choke hold like a steel vice.

"Don't struggle, you'll snap your own neck," recommended the android as Galeas began to gurgle and turn red, she had started to see spots, "things are going to go black in a second, you'll wake up in a minute."

Galeas slumped to the ground, her face red and a light whistling snore, "that was…unbelievable fast! Do Commonwealth agents all fight this well?" Exclaimed Operative Anna LaCroix as she helped turn over Knight Captain Galeas.

"SRB agents are masters of disguise, hand – to – hand combat and tracking," replied Harkness as he pretended to crack his neck while he began to leave the room, "the most important lesson one learns in the SRB is that there are always those better than you, plan accordingly."

LaCroix nodded as Galeas coughed back to consciousness and the android left the room.

J.R. and his father, Colin Moriarty Senior, were meeting in Moriarty's private room. Moriarty Senior's private room was more like an apartment with a sitting room, kitchenette, bathroom and bedroom. J.R. knew the apartment well; it was where he grew up and where his mother died. Jericho was not in the apartment, his father treated the place as he personal domain for private contemplation. The place had yet to change since his mother last decorated, J.R. shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

Moriarty Senior had his legs crossed, right over left, with his right foot wagging as he leaned back, "you've been busy," commented the Irishman as he appraised his son.

"Been getting a few contracts, da," agreed J.R.

"This place hasn't been the same since your ma," Moriarty picked up on his son's inability to sit still, "I can't tell you how much I miss my dear Alice."

_Shut your mouth you horrid peddler of death, misery, and avarice greed_, thought the Operative as he kept his mouth shut and his dad continued; "you might not remember her too well, it's been a long time. She was the light of my life, more so than any saloon or pack of caps," his dad seemed misty eyes, "when I…lost her…there was an empty hole that I withdrew to. I know I wasn't the da you deserved."

"It's been eleven years almost, I don't need an apology now," stated J.R. simply as he thought, _no I just want you to pay for the crimes you've committed to become the man you are today_.

"I don' have a right to apologize, that time has come and went," agreed Moriarty Senior with a nod, "so I did what your ma would have wanted me too."

J.R. was screaming in his head, he bit his inner cheek to prevent him from saying anything out loud; _how dare you tarnish a good woman's reputation for your avarice_.

"I built an empire, or as much as one is possible in this place," stated the elder Moriarty, "and before you returned, I feared I'd have to entrust it to others less worth in time. But now order can be maintained."

"This is not what ma would have wanted," J.R. held the venom in his voice as he referred to the city of Megaton and surrounding area of Springvale.

"I know it's not like the legends of ol' or the former clans and kingdoms of our motherland, but it was what she'd have approved of for the outcome, if not by means," Moriarty Senior stood up from his position and paced in the sitting room.

"Ma was caring, kind, and loving," replied J.R. in argument, "you've built a small fiefdom on corruption, vice, and oppression. Ma would never have wanted this for the town."

Moriarty stopped his pacing and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "you don't remember, do you?"

"Remember the fights? Remember the broken dishes and her crying in the bathroom with a fresh bruise? No da, I do remember very well," snapped J.R. as his breathing became labored.

"Son, you don't know the whole story, you didn't see it all…your ma was depressed, reasonably so," the Irishman flourished his hands to the window, "outside is emptiness. A wasteland surrounded by death and monsters. My da used to tell me stories of the ol' kelly green isle, and despite the green fields and snowcapped mountains, he and many others risked life and limb to eke out a better existence here. The old country was plagued by starvation, oppressive warlords, and horrible weather conditions that were sporadic. Here, in the Capitol Wasteland, there was just enough food, relative stable weather and the freedom for every man and woman to increase their lot in life through hard work. He came for hope, your mother and I got together because of hope, and I'm creating this future for the sake of inspiring hope."

"Stuff your choke hole, old man, with your hope talk. You're missing the point," replied Colin Moriarty Junior as he clenched his fists, "you treated ma like shite and she committed suicide…to get away from you!"

"This is what I'm trying to tell you, lad," Colin Moriarty Senior collapsed into his chair defeated, "as awful as I was in the last year of your ma's life, for over twenty years before that I treated Alice like a queen. The pressure of raising a child in such conditions, where water was a rare commodity and trouble came from friends and foe alike would be tough for any man, woman, or child. Your ma became depressed…and nothing could shake her from those ill thoughts in her head."

"Ma was happy," commented J.R., all of his memories of his mother were happy ones except for the ones where his father was involved.

"You didn't spend long nights talking with her and trying to persuade her things would cheer up, lad," said the old man as his misty eyes began to tear up, "she became so afraid of the outside world that she refused to leave this apartment. She attempted to keep you in here too, to protect you, but I knew that any growing boy needed friends other than his parents and to feel the warmth of the sun on your face. She would get so mad when I let you out, nearly in hysterics about ghouls, supper mutants and monsters eating you. She'd threw things at me, tried to punish me and eventually your ma hurt me in the worst way, more than any gunshot wound or stab wound ever could. I know I led to her taking her own life, and I regret every day I didn't do something to stop her because I lost my only love the day Alice killed herself."

"Then why do the things you do," asked J.R. as he turned away from his father's tears and overt emotions, a well-guarded side of the crime boss that seldom few people ever saw, "why peddle chems and force ghouls to slave in your brahmin pens as second – class citizens. Why employ raiders when grandda was killed by men like them?"

"I Hope you'll understand in time, lad," answered Moriarty as he whipped his tears away, "because I'm going to need your help here, in Megaton."

"I refuse to support these actions…this is your bed," stated J.R. firmly, "lie in it alone."

"Junior, I know you're not a cruel man," replied the father as he walked to his son who was about to leave, "I don't do any of this for myself…I live the same way that we did as family. No new furniture, no expensive meals, nothing has changed for me personally, all I make I invest back into Megaton or Springvale."

"No! Not in the last!" Exclaimed the older man, "people do not need me to lure them to chems and dangerous behaviors. The jet the Springvale ghouls produce is low grade and highly regulated; the whores are well protected and medically examined every week by Doc Church. It's a far better treatment then what they previously had working corners alone and relying on themselves for protection. The casino and debtors prison are out of my control now, but it was a similar situation for that back stabber Crowley and that dog Ashkelon. The money made from these ventures have gone to repairing the water purifier, the wind turbines, houses in Springvale, maintaining the common house, supplies for the clinic…that and paying for the guards to protect the city than loot it. People don't need to fend for themselves in Megaton or Springvale, but it does take caps to change their lives for the better."

"You are no kind hearted soul, da," replied his with a scowl, "you've gained power from your actions and you are a business man, through – and – through."

"Aye, you do have me dead – to – rights," admitted Moriarty Senior, "but in the best of intensions. The more money people have, the more ability they had to purchase items from my saloon. The major goal is to give hope and have my saloon be a place of celebration; not one of depression of the outside. I don't want what happened to the woman I loved to happen to another person."

"That doesn't answer your want for power," pointed out Colin Junior as he took what his dad said with a grain of salt.

"Fuck the power," exclaimed the Irishman, "people without power expect life to be easier with some, but it ain't true. Having to balance the guards, the books, and the other cities is too much for one man. I'm no leader, never have been."

"I can agree to that," mumbled J.R. as the corner of his lips turned up a little while he continued to scowl.

"Lad, I'm still your da," warned Moriarty with a stern glare that softened, "I don't see myself as a leader, neither now nor for the future. But in you, Lad, there is a natural leader. You did not get it from me or your ma; you grew it on your own. I want you to guide this city for the future, the people will look to you more than myself."

"I'm no leader, I'm just a soldier," replied J.R. as he rejected his father's idea, "these people don't deserve to be ruled over by anyone. They deserve the right to make their own decision. I can't rule the way you do, da, I just can't."

"I'm not asking you to rule like me, I know you'll rule better than me or the others that are nipping at my heels for the position," Moriarty Senior poked his son's chest, "but I can't do this alone right now. Jericho and his men are torn between me and that dog Warden, Tenpenny has always had a hidden agenda with Megaton, and Grayditch is taking many items from the caravan traffic from our neck of the wasteland. I need someone remotely loyal to me and Megaton, and there isn't anything thicker than blood here."

J.R. chewed his cheek. He wanted to turn down his dad, he wanted this man to see that there was no connection between him and his son; to cause as much pain for his father as the suicide of his mother caused him. J.R. also knew that BIOS would then be limited in the three town area for the future. Like an angel on his shoulder, his conscience was telling him not to give into his father's will. The cold and calculating voice on his other shoulder told him this would put him in a position to influence and know more of Megaton for BIOS and himself. That cold and calculating voice won over the voice ideology.

"I'm no leader, not yet," stated J.R. firmly, "the people of Megaton are slow to trust, with good reason. I'll help you as best I can, da, but the way I do things will be the way I do them. Blood is thicker than aqua pura."

Colin Moriarty Senior embraced his son in a tight hug; for a man that showed little emotion because it could be perceived as weakness, he had hugged his son the same day he let J.R. see him cry, "there is so much to be done, lad, your ma is smiling down at us today and for the future."

The opening statements had occurred for both the cases against Galvin Cobb, Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop. The court had reconvened for the first of the witness. The judges had limited the witness lists to one a day because some of those listed were vital to the daily operations of the city. The first witness for the trial against Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop was Doctor Gordon Hopkins.

"Please describe the state Doctor Weston Lesko came to be in your care," asked Thomas Notley as he stood between the tables and the justices' bench.

Doctor Hopkins sat in a chair to the left of the judges, "the Brotherhood of Steel brought the victim to…."

"Doctor Hopkins, I'm not asking on how the victim came into your clinic, I'm asking on the medical state Doctor Lesko was in when you began treatment," motioned Notley and the judges nodded.

"Doctor Weston Lesko had suffered physical blunt force trauma that resulted in damage to the brain," answered Hopkins as he looked to the public gallery, "his head and face were battered and bruised."

"What was the state of Lolli Pop's hands, Doctor," Notley asked, still looking to the judges as he turned his body to the gallery.

"Mister Lolli Pop suffered from cut and bleeding knuckles," reported Hopkins in common language.

"How did the defendant receive these wounds on his knuckles," asked Notley as he tapped his fingers on the table top of the prosecution's desk, looking firmly to the public gallery.

"I didn't see him cut himself," replied Hopkins, Jameson didn't race to object to Notley's questioning and relevance.

"Perhaps if you rephrased the question, Assistant Mayor Notley," commented Torres – Brandice.

"Doctor Hopkins, how would the cuts on Mister Pop's knuckles been formed," asked Notley directly and dryly, "in your professional opinion."

"In my professional opinion, Mister Pop cut his hand on teeth as indicated by the bacterial swabs taken and the need to disinfect the wounds multiple times," answered Hopkins like a medical robot.

"Cuts on his knuckles from teeth like when he carried out a planned attack to murder Doctor Weston Lesko," said Notley as he closed with the witness.

"Your honors, witnesses are meant to be questioned by counsel, not used as platforms to continue comments from the opening statement," objected Jameson.

Judge Joost Van Dyke and Marshall Lawson nodded in agreement, "we concur and up hold your objection. Assistant Mayor Notley, please refrain from preaching to the public while questioning the witness," ordered Judge Torres – Brandice, "failure to do so will result in a fifteen cap fine from the court…to be awarded to the City of Grayditch."

Notley nodded his understand as Jameson approached the witness, "Doctor Hopkins, could Mister Juan Alvarado have punched Doctor Lesko?"

"With the wounds sustained by Scribe Georgina Mendel, of the Brotherhood of Steel, Mister Alvarado was in no physical ability to punch Doctor Lesko with either of his arms," said Gordon as he referenced the useless arm tied to the Operative's belt and chest.

"Did Mister Alvarado do any damaging actions to Doctor Lesko," Jameson pressed.

"Not by any way that my medical knowledge could detail," answered Hopkins, "but when I received Mister Alvarado he had been medicated with med – x and was missing a large part of his shoulder."

"Was there any patter to the bruising of the victim's face," asked Jameson as Notley gripped the desk.

"None that medicine could detect," replied Gordon solemnly, "however, the damage to the back of his head was more severe, medically speaking."

"Why would you say that, Doctor Hopkins?" Jameson left the question open and indirect to prevent Notley from exclaiming she was leading.

"The gravel embedded in the scalp needed extreme force to be wedged in the skin. The punches themselves, while hurtful, were nothing compared to the skull impacting with the ground," explained Hopkins.

"The medical report from Doctor Peter Williams Cushing of Vault hundred and one stated that low blood flow was the major reason for the victim's negative health," stated Jameson as she entered the medical report into evidence, "is it possible to live with low blood flow in the brain?"

"As indicated in Doctor Cushing's report, with the right treatment of blood thinners, Doctor Lesko can return to his normal life," Hopkins had read the report from Mendel and his former Enclave medical colleague, "without the treatment, his thought process would be impaired."

"Thank you, Doctor Hopkins," stated Elizabeth as she turned to the judges, "I am done with this witness, your honors."

"Your honors, if I may redirect the witness," asked Notley, Judge Torres – Brandice nodded, "Doctor Hopkins, for the wounds on the back of the victim's head, could it have been anything other than reaction to Mister Pop's savage punches?"

"It's plausible," agreed Gordon Hopkins.

"Could someone, like Mister Pop, have grasped Lesko by the head and slammed it into the ground?" Assistant Mayor Notley mimed the motion of slamming a man's head into the ground.

Doctor Hopkins bit his bottom lip, "it's plausible."

"If someone didn't intervene to stop this brutal and planned attack, Doctor Lesko could have died, is that correct," Notley turned from scoring points with the crowd to the making points to the judges.

"If the Brotherhood of Steel didn't intervene than it would be plausible," admitted Hopkins, trying to push the answer under other facts, _better to be in the hands of the Brotherhood of Steel mutineers than the feral tribals_.

"Unfortunately, that solitary member of the Brotherhood of Steel with a good conscience was publicly murdered outside of your clinic," commented Notley in reference to Galvin Cobb.

"You honors!" Objected Elizabeth Jameson as she stood up.

"The defense counsel is correct, you've been warned Mister Notley," said Judge Sheila Torres – Brandice and nodded to the Marshall known as Bailey, "the court now orders you to pay a fifteen cap fine, the money will be turned over to the City Council for use on the betterment of the city. Likewise, all of the justices will forget your last remark. If you make a comment like that again in court, the fine will be doubled. Is that clear, Mister Thomas Notley?"

"Yes, your honors," agreed the Assistant Mayor, "I am done with this witness."

"Let us then adjourn for the day," Torres – Brandice closed her notes, along with the other judges, "we shall reconvene in three days, including the weekend."

Dennis LaCroix, the Grayditch newsman, approached Scribe Jameson, "Elizabeth, do you have a minute for the press?"

"Mister LaCroix, the press and the Brotherhood of Steel always have time for each other," Jameson had a large smile on her face.

"Assistant Mayor Nottley's comments at the end today seem to point to the obvious guilt of Galvin Cobb," said Mr. LaCroix as he wrote in a notebook, "considering public opinion and your opening statement on the Cobb case, does this change anything?"

"Rumor mongers like Thomas Notley need to provide facts to support their statements, "answered Elizabeth, "one factor he seems to rely on is the assumption of guilt, both for the case against Mister Galvin Cobb and that of Misters Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop. All men and women are innocent until proven guilty, it is upon Mister Notley to give that undeniable proof of guilt."

"You specifically mentioned in your opening that Mister Cobb was not in a proper state of mind," Dennis pushed, "what state of mind was the Fool of Takoma in at the doctor's office assembly?"

"Former Commander Galvin Cobb of the mercenary group known as Talon Company has been under stress since he lost his post in the para-mility group," answered Elizabeth Jameson in a matter – of – fact tone, "he has been homeless, wandering and destitute since that day. His name, once honored and feared, is nothing more than a wasteland joke and a jovial song sung over a round of drinks in the local bar. One does odd things in the name of lost honor, like attempts to gain notoriety and fame through action. Mister Cobb acted as a part of that mob to fulfill their wish and hope to cause bodily harm to the Brotherhood of Steel. He was a loaded gun and the crowed pointed him the largest and shiniest threat they thought they faced in the immediate future."

"So it is in your opinion that the People of Grayditch wished to attack the Brotherhood of Steel," LaCroix was more perplexed than accusatory.

"After the break in of Doctor Lesko's house the sentiment of many residents of Grayditch was anti – Brotherhood of Steel," stated Jameson plainly, "but instead of exerting military force, Elder Lyons moved for an open form of justice that would be agreeable to the people of Grayditch."

"Speaking of the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel, has there been any medical news," Dennis was hopping to finish on a great note of news.

"The Elder has lived through surgery and is recovering peacefully in the Vault's medical facilities," Jameson was all smiles on the news of Elder Owyn Lyons.

"Will he be able to make a statement to the press soon?" Dennis wanted the exclusive.

"Elder Lyons is not up to interviews at the moment, however, expect a public announcement in a few weeks," lied Jameson to keep the news up beat; the headline for the Grayditch Guardian was sure to read: Elder Lyons lives, Brotherhood of Steel Rejoices!

It took the better part of a week, but Operative Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors had made it back to the Citadel. They did not stop to chat up locals in Big Town or Arefu, though they did get five hours of sleep in the common house. During that time on the trail to the Brotherhood of Steel headquarters, the two operatives had written up their report. The actions of Paradise Falls were damning; and the compliancy of Roe in the attack on the Republic was grounds for corporal punishment.

The large Commonwealth camp at the river crossing had surprised the two operatives. The frigate _BCSS Law & Order_ nearly caused Schieber to shit his suit. Two hundred and fifty foreigners were secured by several Paladins and Knights; protecting the Commonwealth from the dangers of the Capital Wasteland and from the foreigners blending into the wasteland. Bors and Schieber walked the parameter till they reached the large metal door and security team for the Citadel.

They were through the door and courtyard, meeting with the acting Elder in the laboratory. The large robot, Liberty Prime, was being rebuilt; currently the head torso and left arm were complete. The right arm lay on a manifold with circuitry and gears open. Rothchild was going over a holograph display with other Scribes on remaking his prized machine. The operatives pulled him away from his work.

"The Chain that Binds needs to be adhered to, even for your branch," commented the acting Elder in a peeved voice as they walked into his humble room off of the main laboratory, "you should have brought this to Bael and Yearling first."

He shook the thin aged paper as he began to read it, "Sir, the implications from Roe are that Star Paladin Bael had full knowledge of the mission."

"The Star Paladin made no word of this to me," Reginald Rothchild grimaced, "Steel Heart is Bael's code name?"

"Among the Alexandria Operatives," acknowledges Schieber.

"This is a serious matter indeed," agreed the acting Elder, "I am giving you permission to pick up Operative Daniel Roe and bring him back to the Citadel for a tribunal."

"And of Star Paladin Bael," asked Bors as he had more authority than Schieber.

"I will send for him," said Rothchild, "along with Scribe Yearling and Operative Roe's team," _it is time for a conversation with Bael and Yearling_.

Scribe Janice Yearling was working in the Arlington Archive. The hundreds of pre-War books were laid out on cleared off tables. The debris the raiders used as security fences were removed. A generator was set up to run lights, air circulators, and a bank of networked computers. The usual Scribes and Knights were working with her. They were joined by a special guest, Degory Bartlett of the Plymouth Aristocracy.

The doctor of history was like a kid in a candy store. Reading through books and tossing those aside that had no particular use. Titles on agriculture of the depression era, trade of Caribbean islands, and the decline of international cooperation were put in a neat read pile. Books on fictional tales, biographies of starlets and children books were discarded in bins that the other Scribes collected and saved from the manic Bartlett.

"Doctor Bartlett, you need to stop tossing these artifacts away," scolded Scribe Yearling as her migraine was building.

"Needless drivel of no consequence," commented the austere historian as he tossed another book into the discard pile.

Two armored Knights walked into the library, one of the regular Knights pointed to Yearling's direction, "Scribe Janice Yearling," asked one of the two new Knights.

"Yes, what is this about," she rejoined.

"Acting Elder Rothchild has asked for you to accompany us to the Citadel," replied the metallic voice.

Janice nodded and moved with the Knights flanking her. Rothchild could have sent a message but instead he sent an escort. Yearling felt like she was being led to trial.

Bael was out of his power armor and in his street suit while at Benjamin's Respite. Venus was on stage singing, he and her were still having a heated sexual affair together. The positive aspect of the affair, besides laying with a beautiful woman, was mining information from her on the other patrons. Cristiano Bael had turned the singer of Benjamin's Respite into an operator. He didn't know if she loved him, but he hoped she was smarter than that. Their relationship was purely sexual, nothing more.

He sipped on a glass of bourbon with a splash of water as two Knights from the Brotherhood of Steel walked inside. They asked the bartender something but what was clear was the bartender pointed his way. Star Paladin Bael," they asked and he nodded, "please come with us, sir, acting Elder Rothchild wants to see you in person."

Bael nodded and walked with them, Venus fumbled on a note. He looked back to her and shook his head. She nodded and cleared her throat to continue singing. Bael looked at the two Knights, _Rothchild is making his move for power since news that Lyons was alive came from Vault 101, bastard._

It took a week for Operative Daniel Roe and his rag tag crew of ghouls to make it to Springvale. Samuel Warrick had returned to Jury Street Metro or Evergreen Mills, he wasn't too forthcoming on revealing his future whereabouts to Roe. The work for the slavers had left the Operative feeling empty even though his pockets were filled. After he paid off some of his debts to Crowley he discussed future need for Franklin, Daan, Zhao and the whole crew. Crowley would keep the team free and charge the same amount of caps like the first time.

With the extra caps, Dan decided to play a few rounds of black jack. He had yet to write up his report on the mission; he thought to keep it off the books. The only problem with that thought walked into the casino. Two men in power armor walked into the casino and behind him.

"Dan, you need to come with us," said Schieber as he put a hand on the Operative's shoulder.

"Can I cash in my chips first," asked Daniel Roe.

"I think this is the crux of the problem," responded Bors to Schieber through the helmet communication devices.

Schieber sighed, "Zimm was quick to know where Roe would go," agreed the Operative through the communication device before he turned back to Roe, "Elder Rothchild has asked us to bring you in, you can take them with you or leave them, but we need to return to the Citadel, now."

"Fair enough," said Roe as he got the card dealer to give him a voucher.

The three operatives made their way out of the casino. The harsh sun made the armor of Bors and Schieber shine bright. The gray combat armor and dusty jacket Daniel Roe wore felt heavy and dirty. He had worked with slavers, he had assisted in the indenturing of human beings and now he would pay for his actions. This was a large gamble with his life, and Roe didn't favor the odds.

**A/N: I'm sorry it has taken me a long time to update. I have written two chapters long hand and need to type them up for posting. I hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter, the next chapter will concern the Grayditch trial, Roe's tribunal, and the reactionary movements of the Republic. **

_**Camponotus pennsylvanicus**_** is the scientific name for Carpenter Ants. **_**Formica rufa**_** is the scientific name for the Southern Wood Ants, which in Europe were commonly confused with carpenter ants. **

**As always stay tuned for more, and please review. Thank you.**


	11. Integrity for Auction

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 11: Integrity for Auction

The conference room was full of members of the Brotherhood of Steel. The A – Ring conference room had a person in every chair. J.R. Zimm had been recalled to the Citadel. Newton and Ban were sitting in on the Tribunal as well, their closeness to the Citadel allowed them the ability to attend. Yearling and Bael were present, so to were Schieber and Bors. Elder Rothchild and several scribes finished the room that seem liked more of an inquisition hall.

The Brotherhood of Steel called such legal action a tribunal. Tribunal's occurred when members of the order acted against the interests of the Brotherhood, and was presided over by several Elders. Tribunals were not announced or occurred at the say of Elders, whose word on the matter was final. The current tribunal was called by Elder Rothchild because of reports on assistance given to slavers in the attack of the Republic by Operative Daniel Roe.

"This report was brought to my attention by Operatives Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors," opened Reginald Rothchild, "the seriousness of these claims would be to the prolonging of the atrocious trade of human life and a number of deaths of non-combatants outside the field of battle. These actions are against the values of the Brotherhood of Steel as written in the Codex. Do you deny these charges?"

"No, I have acted in such a way to cause shame to myself and the Brotherhood of Steel," stated Daniel Roe in solemnly.

"Star Paladin Cristano Bael, as the operational lead of BIOS, did you sanction any operation that Operative Roe took direct part in," Rothchild asked as he held his fingers together.

"No acting Elder Rothchild, Operative Roe acted on his own accord," replied Bael with a frown.

Rothchild nodded as he turned to the logistics manager, "Scribe Janice Yearling, has Operative Roe advanced the progress of BIOS and the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"It is plausible that he has," answered Yearling as she looked to Roe, "while his actions were odious and detestable, Operative Roe opened a connection to Paradise Falls that can allow us the ability for internal reconnaissance and subterfuge."

"Operative Quintus Schieber, you wrote in your report that you had direct radio contact with Operative Daniel Roe, what was discussed," Rothchild looked to Quin as the Scribes wrote notes furiously.

"As stated in my report, Dan said that Star Paladin Bael had sanctioned the operations," replied Schieber with an emotionless face, "I did not find this likely and sought the opinion of Knight Bors, my handler for our operation."

"Knight Jamie Bors, can you describe the effect of the attack and Roe's placement in it," Rothchild noted his own file.

"The attack was separated on two fronts, one against the main compound and one against the secondary work area. Roe assisted in the attack of the main compound that pinned any response to the attack on the secondary objective," Bors licked his lips and whiskers, "my judgment to believe Operative Schieber is based on my thirty year personal relationship with Star Paladin Bael. His hatred for slavers is second only to the Enclave."

"Operatives Zachary Zimm and Colin Moriarty Junior, you have been stationed with Operative Daniel Roe the longest," the two operatives squirmed under his gaze, "what reason would Roe have to work with slavers?"

J.R. held his tongue, Zimm decided to raise the issue he brought to the attention of Bael before, "Operative Roe has a small gambling addiction that has left him indebted to the local casino near Megaton."

J.R. hissed at Zimm in disapproval, "and what are your thoughts Mister Moriarty," asked the Elder of the Capital Wasteland.

"Respectfully, acting Elder Rothchild, Daniel Roe is an outstanding Operative that has saved my life multiple times along with most members of BIOS," commented J.R., "while he may have a gambling problem, it is a medical issue…not a social one. We can't afford to lose such a man, and as Scribe Yearling said, he has presented a prime opportunity to gain intelligence on Paradise Falls."

"Operative Hannah Newton, do you wish to attest to Operative Roe's character," asked the acting Elder.

"I concur with J.R.," said Newton curtly.

"And Knight Michael Ban, do you wish to comment," Elder Rothchild sighed, his tired eyes rolled to look at Ban.

"I withhold any comment," Ban held his tongue from speaking ill or praising Operative Daniel Roe.

Rothchild looked at his files before he turned to Daniel Roe, "as acting Elder of this order while Elder Owyn Lyons recovers from surgery, you acknowledge your guilt honor and respect. You have broken ways with the Codex, the most sacred rules we govern ourselves by day – to – day and since the reign of the first Maxson. You have lied to fellow members of the Brotherhood of Steel; you endangered the lives of non-combatants, and helped prolong the institution of slavery. On the positive side of your action, you have opened a way to infiltrate the den of human enslavement known as Paradise Falls and acted with utmost honor.

"By order of this tribunal, Operative Daniel Roe is hereby ordered never to return to the area of Springvale and Megaton. All gambling debts are to be paid in full from the Brotherhood of Steel treasury; a receipt shall be collected by Star Paladin Bael and a repayment plan established at the full burden of Operative Roe. At sun down, Operative Roe will be whipped fifty times on his bare back by the operational leader of BIOS, Star Paladin Cristano Bael. This tribunal is dismissed."

Daniel Roe held his head down as several people, who he could only guess as he was lost in his own thoughts of shame, _what have I done_.

"I'm sorry, Dan, I had to do what I felt was right," said Schieber but Roe gave no response so he and Bors went down into the labs to report on Trip to Scribe Vallincourt.

Hannah Newton and Michael Ban had a prolonged date to apologize to the delegations of Providence Plantations. They simply gave supportive squeezes to his shoulders as they passed. Yearling spent no time with showing emotional attachment, her Operative had acted on his own will and that was not something she wanted the other Operatives to follow. J.R. and Zimm stood near Roe, talking with him but their words fell on deaf ears.

Cristano Bael walked over to Roe, "private quarters now, operative."

J.R. and Zimm tried to go with Dan but Bael forbade it; they knew Bael was going to tongue lash the young man. Dan didn't look up, he cast his eyes downward still. Bael held both hands to his shoulders and tapped his right arm with a heavy pat. They made it to private quarters and Cristano Bael began to smile.

"You did well, Roe," Bael let his lips part to show his teeth as he smiled more, Dan looking into his eyes, "sloppy end, but consider yourself lucky you caught by your own side. Slavers would have just wasted you. Tell me about the team?"

"Well trained ghouls, renting them was cheap compared to Talon prices," answered Roe as he shook off his shame for a private debriefing, "Mister Crowley didn't press the prices high. All six have twenty year contracts with the ghoul. It is possible to buy the contracts for a small fortune, which is a one time payment that would ensure them them for the duration of their contracts. The ghouls worked well together, all six have experience with combat, tactics, and survival. Most likely gained over their increased life span."

"These candidates seem like a fair choice for an operations team that can not be connected to the Brotherhood of Steel," nodded Bael as he made a mental note for later, "I will be the one to present payments for your debts to Mister Crowley, now we both know there aren't really any outstanding debts. The caps will be used to purchase these contracts."

Roe's face turned a little gaunt as he thought back to the recent findings of the tribunal, "what will happen with the lashes," his life had been cautious, avoiding injury with very few blemishes.

Bael's smile turned cheap, "Rothchild is using you to secure his position as Elder for the inevitable return of Lyons. I, on the other hand, am going to use your sentence because you decided to drop my name. I can't have that, I've worked too hard to build up my position in the Brotherhood. As you can see, with history comes loyalty; and you Operative need to showcase more loyalty. Think of this as punishment for trying to turn on your commanding leader."

In the post operation recovery room of Vault 101, Doctor Peter Williams Cushing was checking Doctor Weston Lesko. The standard check for pupil response was adequate, so to were reflexes and simple memorization. There was still a little bit of a hazy situation with recalling the events of the attack. After the plasma pinch from Scribe Georgina Mendel's side arm went off, the geneticist could remember only fragments of details like being chased and the taste of blood.

"Doctor Lesko, were you this irritable before the head trauma," asked Cushing as he popped two aspirin, "the Scribes have reported that you verbally abuse them to no end."

"If the idiots can't tell the difference between a five – eighths needle and a rabbis needle, they ought to be told off," Lesko's snide voice hurt Cushing's ears and brain.

"Well I suggest you change your mood as one or two of these Scribes will be a live-in assistant monitoring your care," deadpanned Cushing, "and you're almost ready to leave."

"I'll be more than adequate on my own," assured Lesko as he attempted to swing his legs over the bed but found it hard to put pressure on them.

Doctor Cushing pushed Lesko back onto the vault – tec bed with on hand, "you haven't used your legs for a while, I'm going to authorized the use of a vault – tec wheelchair."

Lesko leaned back against his pillows with a deep sign, "just as long as they don't hinder my research."

"I've discussed with Scribe Mendel your work situation," Cushing licked his lips, "this remote system you have set up seems adequate enough for you to use without having to step in the damp sewers."

"That clumsy bucket of bolts is more antiquated and idiotic than the Scribes," lamented Lesko as he yawned and closed his eyes.

Cushing patted the geneticist's knee and walked of to Georgina Mendel, "I slipped him a small dose of med – x with my pen injector. Just remind him he agreed to everything, from the wheelchair to the Scribes."

"You're a crafty man, Doctor Cushing," Mendel said as Lesko began to snore through his nose.

"I'm doing a service to mankind and my own senses," commented Peter blandly.

"The scribes have given me an earful on his treatment of them. I must admit his attitude is the same as before though his fuse seems shorter, "she said as she rubbed a moisturizer into the Elder's frail skin.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Cushing smiled as he flashed a light in the Elder's eyes, "the crazy scientist is jealous of all the attention you dot on Owyn Lyons."

"Nonsense, Lesko and I have been nothing but scientific and intellectual colleagues," replied Mendel as a rebuff.

Cushing tilted his head , a knowing look in this eyes. Elder Lyons coughed and gurgled. Scribe Mendel wiped the spittle away from his mouth. Under his eyes, the circles of his iris and pupils danced around in a detailed movement of life similar to REM sleep. Peter held his palm to Lyons' chest as the elderly man began to rock in bed from side to side. Mendel leaned back as Lyons eyes flashed open with fear and confusion. He blinked furiously, his eyes adjusting to the ceiling lights of the post operation room.

Gasping like a fish out of water, his vocal cords unused for a long time. His eyes were wide and the pupils were contracted to pin points. Lyons tried to sit up but Cushing held him down. Owyn's eyes meet his doctor's and muttered something with and unheard voice. Peter held him down with all this strength, the old man was aged by the wasteland and trained in the best military power the former United States of America had presently.

"Elder Lyons, you had a medical emergency," stated Doctor Peter Williams Cushing, "you haven't used your voice for over a month now. Blink twice if you understand me."

After a moment, the Elder held his gaze to Cuishing's eyes and blinked twice.

"Are you in any pain," the doctor checked his bandages and looked the Elder in his eyes, Lyons blinked twice, "is it your head that hurts?"

Mendel scoffed at the obvious question, Cushing just glanced at her to shut her up as he saw Owyn Lyons blinked twice, "is it a jabbing pain?"

Lyons held his gaze for a long and blinked once involuntarily, _no, good, very good_, thought Cushing, "is it a throbbing pain?"

Elder Owyn Lyons blinked twice, _surgical pain, okay, that can be helped with. Simple pain meds_, thought Cushing, "listen carefully to what I am to tell you, Elder Lyons. You collapsed on October Seventeenth, the year is still Two Thousand Two Hundred and Seventy – Nine. The current date is December Third; you have been in a semi – conscious state for several days, before that you were in a medicated coma. The reason for your fainting and coma were due to a blood clot."

The Elder paid rapt attention to the doctors words, "a wound on your thigh developed a clot that dislodged and traveled up to your brain. The clot blocked blood flow and caused a small portion of your brain to die off. I have removed the necrotic tissue which explains the pain in your head."

Lyons shifted and fought against Cushing's hand, "calm down Elder Lyons', you're through the hard part, now everything is recovery and observation. Mendel has been your personal assistant throughout the surgery and treatment here. She has offered to assist in your recovery as well, if you allow it."

Lyons' shifted to the side and looked to Mendel's eyes and only blinked involuntarily to moisten his ocular orbs, "I suggest you rest up Elder Lyons. This may go against how you feel, but your health is my concern."

Owyn Lyons was a proud warrior, a highly decorated Paladin, and grizzled veteran of the Brotherhood and New California Republic War. Known as the NCR Civil War, the conflict between the Brotherhood of Steel and NCR was long in the making because of certain strains of thought on use of advanced technology. The leadership of the NCR President, Joanna Tibbett, and the ascension of Jeremy Maxson to the leadership of the Brotherhood of Steel moved to cold relations turning to an outright conflict. As a Paladin, Owyn Lyons, held the line protecting the outposts of the Brotherhood of Steel as wave after wave of NCR troops threw themselves in the way of his laser rifle. In the end, the NCR's numbers were too great and the Brotherhood of Steel and so they retreated to their bunkers and secured bases, but Jeremy Maxson was not outdone yet.

Pressuring the ruling council because rumors of great technology in the ruins of the east, Jeremy Maxson put forward an expedition to the Capital Wasteland to find something to turn the tides of war between the NCR and the Brotherhood of Steel. Jeremy Maxson's action caused rifts between Elders from various bunkers, outposts, and former military bases once centralized around the his familial dynasty. Owyn Lyons had found technology that was far advanced and could help the Brotherhood of Steel on the west coast, it led to his promotion to Elder and allotted him the ability to form a base. At the same time, the infighting between individual Elders and Maxson line led to a small internal civil war that resulted in the death of Jeremy Maxson's son and daughter – in – law, Jonathan and Jessica. Their only child Arthur Maxson, Jeremy's grandchild, was sent to the Capital Wasteland to remove him from the conflict as far as possible.

Elder Owyn Lyons removed himself from the situation as well, taking no side in the conflict but that of his own people and the constructive future of the Capital Wasteland. He had fought battle after battle, taking down NCR troopers, super mutants, raiders, and Enclave. He lead and expedition into the unknown and came out the other end shining like a star. Owyn Lyons was a harden man. His personal file in the Codex spoke levels and pages of his deeds. Hundreds looked up to him. At that moment, lying in a vault – tec hospital bed, he was reminded of one scary thought that even he sometimes forgot. _I am mortal and closer to finishing this life than starting it_, he thought as his throat clenched. Many had sacrifices in the name of the Capital Wasteland, Elder Owyn Lyons knew his time for sacrifice was coming soon.

The justices sat at their bench, the crowd followed suit and sat down. The rules of decorum were being created and followed without prompts from the Judges or the Marshall's Men. Alvarado and Pop were not on trial this day, instead Galvin Cobb was at the defense table. He was wearing simple clothes donated by Scribe Elizabeth Jameson. It was comparatively better than the rags he had patched together for clothes.

Elizabeth Jameson wore her maroon robes, Thomas Notley wore a three piece suit, and the Judges still wore their individualized clothes they were accustomed to for work and life. The trial was in the process of calling witnesses, the prosecution allowed the Brotherhood of Steel time to collect a witness from the north. Sentinel Julian Tristan was vital to the prosecution and the Brotherhood of Steel did not want to hinder either side of the trial as it was in their best interest to proceed without obscurities. However, there were several local witness that Elizabeth had pushed before her colleague's time in court.

"Your honors, for my first witness today, I would like to call the proprietor of Benjamin's Respite," said Jameson as the Judges nodded, the bartender sat in the chair utilized by the witnesses, "please state your name and profession for the crowd."

"My name's Lyle, but most call me Mister Benjamin," replied the man sitting in the witness chair, "I own and operate the town bar and entertainment hall, Benjamin's Repsite."

"Mister Benjamin, as a publican do you hear many stories of the wasteland," Elizabeth Jameson stated as Notley stood up.

"Objection your honors," exclaimed Notley as he cast a glance to the Scribe, "relevance? Seriously, is Scribe Jameson going to subpena and question the whole town?"

"I find the question and witness lacking overt relevance," stated Judge Marshall Lawson in agreement.

"I second," nodded Judge Joost Van Dyke.

"We would be inclined to agree with Assistant Mayor Notley," determined Judge Sheila Torres – Brandice, "where is this questioning going?"

"If your honors will bare with me, all will be clear soon," Jameson said and the Judges nobody, "Mister Benjamin, if you will answer my question please?"

"As a … I dunno the word you used to describe me, Miss, but yes, I hear stories," Lyle Benjamin smiled and leaned back, "nothing goes better with some booze than a story."

"Have you heard stories of former Commander Galvin Cobb," the Scribe held some papers in her hand.

"Must say I've heard of the Fool of Takoma," answered Benjamin, "most common song in my these nights. Biggest joke in the bar too."

"Pardon me, joke," this was not unknown to Jameson, but there were many jokes at the expense of former Commander Cobb.

"How many men does it take to lose a Talon base," asked Lyle Benjamin as the Judges looked perplexed and Jameson asked how many, "well, none. 'Cause Galvin Cobb's...er...gender is...in repute."

The public gallery exploded in laughter and jeers to the former Talon Company commander. Torres – Brandice was banging her gavel hard as the Marshall's Men were motioning for the crowd to quiet down. Galvin Cobb stood up and sneered to the crowd. Elizabeth Jameson ran to her client and tried to force him to sit back down, but the damage to his ego was already too much. Cobb picked up his chair and tossed it into the public gallery hitting several people in the process. A Marshall pulled the the defendant from the table as the gallery began to storm the courtroom.

Ten Marshalls closed ranks and held the crowed back from the defense table and the Judicial bench. They stood shoulder to shoulder and used their weapons as a barrier to prevent the Grayditch citizenry from moving forward. Marshall Bailey was attempting to convince the justices to leave through their chamber door. Jameson was pushed away from her client and fell to the ground, the crowd almost getting a fist full of her robes to pull her into the mayhem.

Marshall Lawson stood up and pointed a forty – four magnum into the air and shot up. The loud bang caused the crowed to stop hassling the Marshall's Men. Some women shrieked in the crowd, afraid someone had been shot. Random bits of wood and plaster fell on Lawson's head. He nodded to his men and they began to assemble again.

"Please make your way back to your seats, ladies and gentlemen," he drawled as he holstered his weapon, "one more outburst like that and we'll eject the whole lot of you. Forcably if you give my men reason."

There were no nodding heads, not even a response from the crowd. People slowly returned from the standing mob to the sitting public gallery. The Marshall's Men grabbed the chair thrown by Galvin Cobb and firmly placed at the defense chair. Another Marshall's Men helped Scribe Elizabeth Jameson up from the floor.

She felt a strain in her ankle and tried to avoid patting pressure on it. Two Marshalls stood behind Galvin Cobb and looked over the crowd. Their long rifles crossed in their arms as their right hands felt the grips of their handguns. Torres – Brandice turned her gaze to the former commander of Talon Company.

"Mister Cobb, behave in such a manner again and we will be forced to restrict your movements," scolded the head of the court.

"Your honor," Elizabeth began to stand but could not hold her weight on her ankle, "trying my client in absentia would violate his right to a fair defense and trial."

"Noted, defense counselor," said Torres – Brandice as she leaned back to talk with the other judges; several nods and Torres – Brandice leaned forward, "Mister Cobb, if you act in such a manner that could harm the public again, you will be bound and gagged. Is that clear?"

Galvin Cobb looked to his counsel and nodded; Torres – Brandice then turned to the crowd, "as for the public gallery, if you assemble in a mob like action again, we will be forced to empty the courtroom and bar the public from the proceedings. There is no discussion on the matter."

"You can't decide to bar us from viewing," retorted a man as he stood up to rally the crowd, "we live here and can go where we want! No matter what you may say!"

The crowd nodded with approval, some even voicing out their agreement; Torres – Brandice whispered into Bailey's ear before directing her voice to the court, "In this hall, we Justices are the final word on law. You, sir, are to be escorted from the courtroom. If you resist, I have instructed the Marshalls to arrest you."

One of the Marshall's Men were ushering the man from his seat and out of the court, "on what grounds are you throwing me out, Brandice, what is your reason you witch," he yelled as the Marshall pulled him by the elbow.

"Disrupting the proceedings of the court," replied Torres – Brandice as the Marshall forcibly removed the man, she turned to Scribe Elizabeth Jameson, "please proceed."

In a dark facility with the emergency lights providing the only form of visible light, dwelled on of the most feared leaders of the wasteland. His armor was unique, old black combat armor that he welded metal reinforcements for support and terror. His helmet was an old and beaten riot helmet missing the plastic face guard. There rusty surgical implements on the table along with some chemical and science sets. A man in his underwear sat on an old metal chair, a pre – war machine and monitor hung near him, there were grotesque scars and freshly stitched wounds around swollen, sore, and bruised muscles.

Commander Jabsco paced in front of this man. He was adjusting a special cocktail of psycho as he walked back and forth along the same path. Jabsco knelt down to the man's thigh and locked the leather straps as the patient struggled. One of his soldiers approached as he jammed the needle into the test subject's leg. The man in the chair yelled and cried out, but his sounds were muffled in the gag tightened to his head and mouth. Jabsco began to wash his hands in a bowl of water as a soldier walked down the metal steps with a message for him.

"Important information from the Second Scouts, sir," the soldier, a low level Lieutenant, reported and stood back trying to avoid the disgusting scene before his eyes.

Wiping his hands on a dirty rag, "report, L – T," Jabsco's voice was monotone but heavy.

"The Second Scouts report the location of the traitor," the Lieutenant said as he slowly relaxed, "the settlement of Grayditch is putting him through a … trial, sir."

Jabsco sneered at his soldier causing the man to become defensive, _the Brotherhood of Steel runs that town_, "tell the Second Scouts to recover the traitor when able, they are to not fire on the Brotherhood of Steel in anyway."

"Yes Commander," replied the low level officer as he turned to leave, "what about the settlers, sir?"

"Fuck those assholes," answered the Commander as the guinea pig fought against the restraints as Jabsco took out a rusty blade and began to reopen on of the old wounds, "I'm going to make you into a super weapon, Hathaway, _my_ super weapon."

The new Brotherhood of Steel initiates were training in the courtyard. Paladin Gunny ordered a ceasefire and for the new initiates to congregate in the center of the yard. Daniel Roe was flanked by Schieber, Bors, Newton, and Ban with Bael behind them all. Acting Elder Reginald Rothchild along with several scribes and Sentinel Lyons stood with him, her squad was back in the Citadel for resupply. Operative Roe was shirtless, his bare chest and back chilled as the Capitol began to enter the colder rainy season. The areas outside of the D.C. Ruins would not see the rain, but inside the aged ruins of the former world empire the water and frost would collect.

His skin bristled with goose pimples to make his light, nearly invisible, body hair stand on end. At one of the arched canopies used for target practice, the Scribes tossed two ropes over a cross beam. Roe offered his arms freely, Ban and Bors bound his wrists and forearms tightly. They tightened the rope, tension was put on Roe's back and shoulders; his heels lifted from the ground as he balanced on his toes. Bael stood in front of him, a twisted leather rope in his hands that had a metal tip that ran for three inches.

"Take this, it'll keep you from biting your tongue off," the Star Paladin pushed a wad of leather into Roe's mouth, "and just remember that loyalty is a double – edged sword, whichever way it swings limbs are bound to be cut. We walk the middle of the blade, constantly balancing. Unfortunately, when you attempt to throw your team mates and leaders under Liberty Prime, there are repercussions."

Dan winces as his lips fumbled around the wad of brahmin leather. The whip in Star Paladin Cristano Bael's hand was twenty – five feet long and he stood twenty – four feet and nine inches behind Roe's bare back. Rothchild was informing the new local initiates on the reason for Dan's corporal punishment. The Operative could not hear him, but what he did know was the no risk will be worth lashes. Most everyone in the Citadel stopped from their daily duties and personal lives to view the sentencing of the Tribunal.

The first cut was the deepest, starting from his right shoulder to his left ribs across his back. Bael would crisscross the cuts, counting off the number as some of the crowd winced at the hard hits slashing against Roe's back. Large cuts of sliced skin hung from his back as he bled. Dan's knees had gone weak and his wrists were getting cut by the ropes. Hot and angry tears rad down his face, Quintus Schieber turned away after the fifteenth lash. Elder Rothchild had not watched the dealing of his sentence.

The Acting Elder did not see the justice to corporal punishment, just it's logical application. Daniel Roe's tribunal had been the first one in years for the Brotherhood of Steel; the Outcasts were not subject to them as tribunals could only occur with the accused present and accounted for. It was also Elder Rothchild's first judicial decision as a leader of the Brotherhood of Steel. He sought to continue the policies of Elder Lyons, while paving his own practice as a leader of the order in the eyes of Knights, Paladins, and Scribes. He was tough, smart, and adhered to the rules of the Brotherhood of Steel set in the Codex and the new policies of interaction set by his long time friend. Many questioned if Elder Rothchild would step down with the return of Lyons, the tribunal answered this question with an affirming no.

On the twentieth lash, Roe moaned out and pushed the leather wad from his mouth. Dan clenched his teeth and moaned in pain and prolonged anger as Bael whipped him. The sound of his pained cries with each lash opening a wound on his back filled the courtyard. Wounds formed upon wounds, the sight of the long and deep cuts made the new initiates queasy. Bael's arm was getting tired, the power armor added extra strength to the lashes. As soon as the sentence began it was finished; however, for those watching and for Roe, it seemed to have lasted for hours.

At Paradise Falls, Eulogy Jones had gone over the recently acquired stock from the Republic and mobilized them quickly in the few days he had organized months in advanced. The slaves were categorized into certain groups for sale; some were destined to hard labor, others for personal pleasures, while yet another group would be taught skills that would make their labor more important and valued in the post – Great War world. The direct route between the Pitt and Paradise Falls had been loss, but a secondary and slower route had been brought back into use. The land route, compared to the rail system, meant a longer travel time for stock to be transferred with limited rations over a vastly longer distance. On third of those that made the trip, slave and slaver a like, died en route. This was of no consequence to the slavers of Paradise Falls because it made slaves worth more caps and the ratio between caps and steel increase. Eulogy Jones was happy to provide the supply of humans because there was a need for labor, for sex slaves, and cannon fodder in small wars.

The gated pens were filled as the purchasers were looking over the stock. The representatives came from all over the Capital Wasteland. Some families from Drayden, the Pitt, Evergreen Mills, and the Eastern Shore had brought goods, caps, and human stock for barter in the auction. The representatives from the Pitt, who looked as diseased as their transports, and their pack brahmins carried freshly pressed steel sheets and parts. The families from Drayden kept separate with their kinsman, the genetic lines established established groups, friendship, and rivalries. The raiders from Evergreen Mills also had traders mixed in their group and held themselves with a cheap air of independence because they were not beholden to any group, organization, or kinship ties but that of their own person.

The human stock offered by the independents of Evergreen Mills were emaciated and sickly, they were to be turned in for a credit of caps written as a voucher, because of work in the quarry. Limestone was the main good of the Mills, the finished products were stones and concrete. The Foreman of the Mills had created an adequate market to produce an ancient building material. The common application was put to helping reinforce the main building, but hard labor was needed for those building supplies, along with technicians skilled in stone cutting, and the independents thought the work beneath their perceived status.

The representatives of the Eastern Shore were separated in different groups, Eulogy Jones made sure that the warring states did not use aggression in the area of Paradise Falls, though looked similar in how different they were from everyone else. Their skin tone was darker, nearly olive, but glowing and had thicker dark hair, and a common trait was darker eyes except for one clan. Their clothing ranged from simple cloth, leather, and some that had tempered metal. The cotton used for the cloth was mostly died green and brown, formed by local dyes taken from shellfish, and skilled textile weavers and cotton spinners. The leather they wore changed amongst clans, some using padded leather while others used stripes bound together and those that treated animal skin to make leather by their women chewing the skin to be soft and spitting on it to make it aged. The one thing that seemed to overtly connect all the clans was their need for slaves.

Eulogy Jones did not care for any of his buyers, he did not treat one group better than the other. Chattel slavery was about business and Jones was primarily a businessman. The slave auction was his soap box and money maker. The stage was set and his hired brutes brought forward the first batch for sale, several ghouls that would bring a low price because of prejudice in the region. Salesmanship was knowing what the people wanted, and since he wanted the most amount of caps lining their pouches he presented his worst product first to sell it off quickly.

"First up are several shufflers, caught around five months back, unengaged and fed for that time," the small stage held nine ghouls that differed widely in height, from five feet and two inches to six feet and nine inches tall, and body type, from thin to broad; the ghouls did not wear shackles because the slave collars were tight around their neck, "eldest is determined to be two hundred and seventy – two. The youngest is said to be a hundred and ninety – four. As a group, let's begin the bidding at ten thousand caps."

The representatives carefully examined the stock and no purchasers put a bid for the group. Eulogy Jones knew he needed to unload these rotters or else he'd suffer a major net loss of caps. Smiling, he made a motion with his right hand and his head brute separated the nine ghouls. From his podium he looked to the crowd.

"Seeing no bids for the group, let us divide between ghouls," he made the come forward hand signal and the tall one was pushed forward by the butt of a rifle, "standing at six foot nine inches, aged around two hundred and fifty years, stands Jumbo. Good for hard labor, still able to work stone and fields. Best for big game hunting, if so desired. Let's start the bidding at a thousand."

One of the representatives lifted their hand up in the air, Jones called it out and pushed the bid up for another representative. Hands were raised between the Mills and the Pitt, as well. One of the Drayden families were bidding as well. The price rose from a thousand to a thousand five hundred quickly, but it took nearly a full three minutes to get the final bid of two thousand three hundred caps. The tall and broad ghoul, now named Jumbo, was purchased and a sold tag hung around his neck.

"The first purchase today goes to the McCullen family of Drayden, onto the second item of this group," and like that the sale in human life continued.

Samuel Warrick watched with feigned interest. He came from the South, from a place where slavery was the cornerstone of the local way of life. The main difference between the slavery of the Capital Wasteland and that of the South was the equal opportunity of the North. Skin color and race still determined one's status in the south, a reversion to some old beliefs thought to have been eradicated with the inclusion propaganda of the former American Empire. However, some historical currents were hard to dismantle when fringe ideologies survive to prosper after great devastation. Warrick snapped back to the present, still struck by the ability of anyone to be impressed into slavery if they were unlucky enough to be caught but a slaver.

Carolina Red sat nest to the bounty hunter and passed him a drink; he eyed it carefully, "how am I tah know yeh didn't slip me a knock out drug," he asked with mild concern.

Carolina laughed like a hyena, "iffin I wanted to catch yah, Sam Warrick, I'd made plans to sell you in this here spectacle," she pinched on his cheek, "an old hunter like yourself would catch a pretty cap."

"Why, Miss Carolina, I don't know whether to thank you or give you a permanent limp so I can track you better," said Warrick as he took a small sip of the alcohol.

"More like a limp so you'll be able to run away," she laughed as the watched another slave sold, "them caps sure do feel right in my pouch."

"What adjustment rate did you work out with Eulogy," Warrick watched the sale of more humans.

"Plus fifteen thousand," replied Red with a devilish smile, Warrick spit up into his drink.

"And Walker, know his adjustment rate," the bounty hunter some times wished he got into the slavery business professionally.

"Leroy is proud of getting plus ten thousand, negative fifteen thousand," answered Red as she sat back and put her elbows back on the picinic table, "the idiot hasn't even come for the auction himself. He's expecting to find out later in a ledger from Jones."

"So all loss is pretty much covered by Leroy," filed away Warrick as he shook his head to Eulogy's brilliance; he then chose his next words for impact, "I've been hearing things about the Republic, you hear the rumors too?"

Red scoffed, "let them build an army, just makes them want to buy stock from us more."

Warrick pondered this, thinking of a fast way to make a cap. He stood up, leaving his drink unfinished. Carolina put a hand on his leather clad thigh.

"Where do you think you're going, ol' man," she asked as she firmly gripped his inner thigh, "I want to celebrate my cap winnings."

Samuel Warrick looked down into Carolina's face, her shaved head allowing two red tuffs shaped like devil horns on her crown, "your young enough to be my daughter."

"Funny, that's what my pop said too," she said before smiling evilly, "before he made me bleed for the first time."

Incest disgusted the Bounty Hunter, but in a society with little morality and a lack of social taboos, who was he to voice his personal opinion. Reconciling that Red was not his own lin, also she was the one that propositioned him, he agreed. She stood and led him to her room. Warrick took out an inhaler of jet to help stimulate his old bones.

Quintus Schieber and Jamie Bors were suited up and had secured a vertibird. They had drafted a contract with Elder Rothchild for the Republic. The Brotherhood of Steel didn't acknowledge the culpability of the Operative Daniel Roe, but it was clear through the terms that a lot of leeway was given to the Republic. In the vertibird, Schieber and Bors had requisitioned four fifty – five galleon drums of aqua pura and a single Mister Handy unit under the command of a Scribe and two Knights. The only item requested of the Republic was the procurement of goods to create a small Brotherhood of Steel barracks and the quartering of members until it was complete.

The parchment was drawn up and the yellow seal of the Brotherhood of Steel was embossed on the bottom of the page. Schieber had sent a letter out to his family by way of courier to begin trade negotiations. Bors brought something that surprised the younger operative, holotapes of his family. He didn't play the recordings on the way to the Republic, he just seemed to stare off into space as he absentmindedly stroked the storage devices.

The twin rotors whirled as the ground moved quickly under the craft. They landed slowly to the right of the Republic so as to not bother the livestock and kick up dirt and sand. The Republican Guards greeted them, the Scribe, Knights, and Brotherhood pilot stayed on board the vertibird. Schieber and Bors left the craft and walked with the guards to talk with President Rosie.

In a few short days, the Republic had mobilized all the guards for more detailed shifts and something that resembled martial law. The compound held more armed guards than before, lookout posts on building help protect from future attacks. President Rosie had tightened the reigns of freedom with in the Republic. The operatives saw children that were being taught to fire a weapon when several days ago they were educated from books. The shinning light that Quin and Jamie saw was beginning to flicker.

Inside the President's office, the Operatives were left with Rosie, "welcome back Knights Bors and Schieber."

"Good to see you in good health," answered Bors as he held the parchment close, "we bring a contract with us from the Brotherhood of Steel and Elder Rothchild."

"May I see those terms," asked Rosie as she held out an open palm to the Knights; Bors gave her the document and she read it over quickly, "hmm...your terms seem reasonable but we need to focus on rebuilding and increasing defenses first and foremost."

"The wording of the agreement prevents the Brotherhood from building offensive weapons. The small team can help build the defensive structures," pointed out Schieber to the wording, "but the small teams we plan to have rotating in every so often will ensure the delivery of water and recovery from attack."

Rosie nodded and took another look at the parchment, "we are able to take care of ourselves gentlemen."

"We do not deny that," Bors moved closer to the President, "you have handled the crisis well, but when a friend offers an open hand don't sit and appraise it."

Cocking her head to the side, Rosie took a better look at Bors' face, "may this agreement lead to better relations between the Republic and the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Trees of life can only be planted in fertile ground," agreed Schieber as he took a second copy out for Rosie to sign as well so that one could be stored with the Order of the Quills, "I'll go an mobilize the team."

Schieber left the President and Knight Bors, "Rosie, I brought something to show you."

"What is it," she asked, slightly flattered but with her mind else where.

"In loss... we both share a bond, but I wanted you to hear my wife and son's voice," said Bors as he inserted the holotape into his player.

They both listened to the message of love and longing from Bors' son and wife, "your wife sounded like an angle and your son sounded adorable," Rosie held back her emotions to just allow her eyes to mist.

"They were... and that's how I remember them," Bors put away hi holotape, "and that's how you need to remember Bob, as well."

Rosie looked deep into Bors' eyes, "I will find those responsible and gain my vengeance a pound of flesh at a time."

Jamie held the President's hand, "tell me about Bob, I only knew him for a short time."

"You don't want to know, not really, you're just being nice," said Rosie as she pushed Bors' hand from hers.

"Sure I do," he answered, "what was his childhood like?"

"Bob was a needy child," said Rosie as she stood and crossed to the safe and opened it to take out a small toy teddy bear that she held, "he was so sweet. But Dave, his father, couldn't have a sweet son. He needed to be cunning and ruthless, like his father."

"A sweet child can not become cunning or ruthless," assured Bors.

"No, Bob couldn't, he was good son, very loyal," agreed Rosie, "it's..."

"No parent should ever have to bury their child," stated Bors as he gave her hand a firm clench.

She looked at him with sad but thankful eyes, "tell me about your son."

Operative Daniel Roe was lying in his stomach in the Citadel's clinic. Elder Rothchild refused to have his lashes mended by Sawbones. The pain, discomfort, and scars were meant to be a reminder. Star Paladin Bael was to be Roes direct minder now, no longer would he be stationed out of the Megaton region. Yearling and Bael had agreed to relocate Roe to Grayditch mainly because Bael had become too overt of a figure and needed to pull back. Likewise, most citizens of Grayditch knew Elizabeth Jameson and Georgina Mendel, specifically what they looked like. The goal was originally to set up Roe in Megaton and Springvale, but that plan had to be adapted based on the ruling of Elder Rothchild.

However, just showing up in Grayditch without any type of cover would leave too many open questions. Bael had recovered an authorized amount of caps, equal to the cost of all six ghouls under Crowley's contract. Roe was to form a mercenary group that had a branch in Grayditch. The last two parts, the purchasing of a building and registering the business with the Grayditch council would become difficult. The Star Paladin told him not to worry about the difficult parts, so Roe's mind was focused on the creation of a real mercenary group that had originally started as a cover story and the pain from his back.

The Scribe in the medical clinic handed Roe his shirt. The young man grabbed it awkwardly and winced as the pressure of the clothe hurt his wounds. His combat armor added more weight and caused more discomfort. Dan had to walk slowly so that his armor didn't jostle as he met up with Bael. The back plate of his combat armor would hit his injured back as he walked. Dan put his jacket on, a gray waist coat that was tied with a leather belt with a second holster on it.

Cristano Bael was in a dirty suit he used for common day clothes. He laughed internally when he saw the slow gate of the operative. Roe was a strong kid, but in the wastes you needed to be more than strong. Together they preceded to Springvale. The walk taking less than half a day at the fast pace Bael set.

At Crowley's Games & Cards, the guards nodded with respect to Roe. The two men, Operative and operational head, were allowed entrance into Crowley's office. There was no fuss from the guards, nor really anyone escorting them, however eyes followed them as they made their way to Mister Crowley. The ghoul boss was enjoying a mix drink by his fireplace. He turned to greet the men, he appraised Bael as his deaden eyes looked him up and down.

"Mister Crowley, I presume," said the Star Paladin, there was no motion to extend a hand to shake the ghoul.

"You're this one's boss," stated the ghoul, his voice like gravel.

"I'm the main backer," answered Bael, his posture was meant to be neutral.

"One boss to another then," insisted Crowley and Roe left the two to talk.

"The recent mission Mister Roe ran worked great with your men," commented Bael honestly as he tried to gauge the dead face of Crowley, "and I would like to purchase the remainder of their contracts."

"I don't sell contracts before I see the money," the ghoul said as he sat down behind the chair.

Bael put a large rucksack on Crowley's desk filled with caps, "here is the rounded off amount you quote Mister Roe earlier."

Crowley looked over the caps to make certain they were legit, "an organization like yours would have made waves before."

"We don't intend to make waves here," said Bael firmly, "but we do plan to set up shop in Grayditch."

"To many smoothskins," commented Crowley as he zipped up the rucksack.

"So do I have a deal for the contracts," asked Cristano as he moved to take the bag of caps back.

Crowley stopped him, holding the Star Paladin's smoothskin with his scaly and scabby hand, "we have a deal, but if I find out these men are used against me I will hunt you down and eat your flesh raw from your living body."

Bael made a disgusted look on his face as he took his hand from the ghoul, "let's hop it doesn't come to that."

"Fucking racist," mumbled Crowley as he pulled six contracts and added a new line to them, "just sign here smoothskin."

"Were do we pick them up," asked Bael as he signed the name C.B. Alexandria.

"They will be in the security room," answered Crowley as he looked over the signature, "Mister Alexandria, I see... why yes I've heard about you and your mercenaries."

"I hope my reputation speaks for itself," replied Bael as he took the papers and exchange the caps.

"Indeed your men are intelligent," agreed Crowley as he took the caps, "but they are only good based on the backing of caps."

"They have certainly made you a richer man," answered the Star Paladin, "I must go pick up my men."

Crowley nodded and Bael left the room. Roe joined his minder as they walked to the security room. Franklin, Zhao, Daan, and the others were all waiting with the kits packed and the radio on. Bael eyed the radio that ran on vacuum tubes and handed the contracts to Roe. The were all to travel to Grayditch where the housing arrangements would be made. The ghouls put on their face masks so as not to scare the people of Grayditch.

Elizabeth Jameson moved slowly with a limp due to an untreated sprained ankle. The trial of Galvin Cobb had commenced again. A famous figure like former Commander Cobb drew more attention than that of the Operatives by the Capital Wasteland. The trial had returned with another witness, one that garnered fear along with his word holding meaning. Sentinel Tristan was next to be questioned. He sat in his modified power armor called 'Dillo wear, his helmet off and positioned in his lap.

Thomas Notley's questions had been short and to the point. What was his rank, and Tristan answered Sentinel; who out ranks Sentinels, and the answer was only Elders. Notley asked if Tristan was at assembly in question, and he answered yes; and what was his role, Julian Tristan answered he took down the bastard that shot Knight Jenson. Scribe Jameson had an issue on her hands because her line of questions would make Tristan go into a rage.

The Sentinel looked like a hard man, as as Proctor of the Order of the Quills, Jameson knew his deeds well, "Sentinel Tristan, how long have you served with the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"All my life," answered the grizzled leader from the Northern Frontier, "been an active duty for thirty years."

"How would you describe the crowd outside the clinic the day Knight Geoffrey Jenson was shot," asked the Scribe.

"Chaos, Mister Notley called it an assembly," Sentinel Tristan paused, "but to us in the Brotherhood, it seemed like a group of murderous tribals. I was helping with security moving two of our men, but in the crowd that man ran up to Jenson and shot him."

Julian Tristan had pointed to Galvin Cobb, "was there any indication that former Commander Cobb initiated the mob or the violence?"

"We could barely see three feet in front of us," admitted Sentinel Tristan, "the crowd was so thick that it forced us close together. When I saw Jenson go down... I moved quickly to grab the guy."

"Sentinel Tristan, are you saying you didn't see my client fire the weapon," asked Jameson with a pause.

"I heard the gun shot and saw Jenson go down," replied Tristan, "I was able to knock the guy down and removed a forty – four caliber handgun. It had been fired recently, and some of Jenson's blood was on the barrel."

"The point still remains, Sentinel Tristan, you did not see former Commander Cob shoot that man," stated Jameson.

Sentinel Tristan showed visible anger at the Scribe, "the smoking gun was in his hands."

"Did you see the gun before it was fired, Sentinel Tristan," asked Jameson as she rested on the table to take pressure off her feet.

"No," answered Tristan tersely.

"Did you see the gun in my client's hand after you tackled him to the ground," asked Jameson plainly.

"It was right next to him on the ground," stated Tristan firmly.

"Yes or no, Sentinel, did you see the weapon in the defendant's hands at all," the Scribe pushed as Julian Tristan became angered and half stood from his chair before he sat back down.

"No, I did not," he growled through gritted teeth.

"Is it possible that my client didn't even hold that gun or fire that shot," Jameson was moving towards the kill, providing as much reasonable doubt as she could.

There was a long pause before Tristan replied, "no, he killed Jenson."

"How are you certain, Sentinel, you yourself even said that the crowd was so close and packed that you couldn't see past three feet," stated the Scribe.

Tristan exploded in a rage from his seat, "how dare you! Have you no honor? You defend a piece of filth, the killer of your brother! He murdered Jenson! And you sit hear and defend him!"

Justice Sheila Torres – Brandice banged her gavel hard. The public gallery had erupted like before. Emotions were running strong. The Marshall's Men were trying to calm the people and return the courtroom to order. Tristan was up and out of his seat, a Marshall holding him back by blocking his way.

"A twenty minute recess is in order," said the head Justice and court was put on hold, the Marshall waited for the Sentinel to calm down before letting him pass.

Sentinel Tristan walked up to Scribe Jameson as the other Marshall's Men helped guide the public gallery out of the court room, "what the hell was that, Liz?"

"We shouldn't be talking like this," answered the Scribe.

"I answered your questions, now answer mine," said Tristan with force.

"What do you want to know," asked the Scribe.

"Why are you defending a piece of shit like Cobb," he asked with a glare to the former Talon Commander.

"That answer is above your pay grade," replied Jameson.

"There are very few above my level, _Scribe_," he replied with a slight snarl.

"Don't you have to get back to the North sometime," she said coldly, "not that I want to see you off, just that I think you've grown to like the..._climate_ up there."

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban were welcomed to the large section of the Commonwealth encampment run by the Kingdom of Brandia. The large encampment by itself seemed like a small town; there was a working blacksmith, cobbler, bakery, and butcher. Charles Everidge, the Prime Advisor to the Prince of Brandia, had sent a formal request for Ban and Newton to visit. The operatives decided not to wear their power armor as it did not seem culturally appropriate based on the looks they received from others from the Kingdom of Brandia. The event that Newton and Ban were invited to resembled monarchs of medieval Europe holding court. Regional lords and ladies from Brandia discussed politics, the weather, and the adventure to this new and exotic place. A small band of mistrals played music in the corner of the vaulted tent with caterers walking about serving small portions of hand food.

Ban and Newton both wore army dress clothes, the insignias of captains were pinned to their passants, the epaulettes that went with them seemed to gaudy and frivolous. As they walked forward to the simple wooden thrown that the Brandians had brought with them on their pilgrimage, the other court attendees stared at the representatives from the Brotherhood of Steel. They stuck out like sore thumbs because all of the nobility and knights looked like characters from a badly misinterpreted medieval historical text. The Prime Advisor whispered into the Prince's ear, the two massive dogs at the feet of the throne perked up to the approaching Operatives.

"Thank you for the invitation, Prince Brandian," expressed Ban with sincerity as he bowed his head.

"Welcome to our little slice of Brandia," greeted the Prince as he petted his dogs, and saw Newton's face scrunched up in concern, "don't mind Holmes and Warren, Brandian Mastiffs are very well trained and loyal."

"They're massive," stated Newton at a loss of words.

"They'll allow you to pet them as long as you approach them slowly," said the Prince as the Prime Advisor looked at the dogs with disdain, "they're a great breed to have as they can detect treachery in the heart of anyone."

"The Brotherhood of Steel would like to ensure that you have enjoyed your stay thus far," Ban continued with the cordial greeting.

"There is something I've been meaning to ask as a favor, if the Brotherhood of Steel will indulge me and my men," asked the Prince as he cracked a smile to show his teeth, "as this is a pilgrimage."

Ban gave a sideways glance to Newton, "we cannot promise anything, but we will represent your interests to Elder Rothchild."

"I, and my personal bodyguards, would love to visit the National Mall," Louis Brandian commented.

"Your grace, the Mall is under constant siege. There have been two areas that have been secured, but the majority of the Mall remains under constant conflict," offered Ban in hope to build good relations based on the freedom of sharing information.

The Prime Advisor and the Prince conversed for a minute before they turned back tot he operatives, "we look forward to hearing what Elder Rothchild will say."

"We shall let them know and plan a trip to the secured areas in good faith," answered Ban as the Prince nodded and the operatives backed away with the conversation official over.

The Prince talked again with Everidge, "we'll give them the information on the Enclave after we've gained access to the National Archives."

"Before or after we find the codes for Devens," asked the Prince, trusting in Everidge's judgment.

"Ideally after. Think of it, your grace, we can subdue War Castle and expand your kingdom two fold!" Exclaimed Lord Brighton with a smile, "and the people will not call you a war monger, as they have your father. You'll still be adored and love as Louis the Kind."

"Emet v'tzedek," intoned the Prince, using the motto in the language the Kingdom of Brandia was established on, which meant 'truth and justice'.

Charles Everidge replied in like and as the two separated he also added, "fiat lux, Prince Brandian, fiat lux."

In the medical center of Vault 101, Doctor Cushing and Scribe Mendel were with Elder Lyons. Doctor Weston Lesko had been discharged under twenty – four seven house care of two Scribes and a three month supply of blood thinners. The Scribes left in Vault 101 felt relieved that the Grayditch researcher and geneticist had left. Now attention was paid to making Elder Lyons stronger since he awoke. The leader of the Brotherhood of Steel had an issue with his treatment in the medical center.

The right hand and leg of Elder Lyons went through numb periods and had slower than normal reaction speeds. This lead to the Elder wobbling and almost falling on several occasions, refusing the assistance of the Scribes, even that of Mendel, due to his own pride. Doctor Cushing had already secured a wheelchair for the Brotherhood leader. It would most likely be a situation for the rest of the Elder's life. Also, through physical therapy and prolonged mental examinations, the typical patient and pleasant attitude of Owyn Lyons would turn to quick anger and frustration.

Elder Lyons sat in his new, and probably permanent wheelchair, in his royal blue robes. The surgery scar on his head was healing well along with some sparse hair growth. He was rubbing his aged right hand as he lost feeling in it, yet again. Owyn Lyons was thankful to be alive, but was slightly off – put by the changes he saw within himself.

Peter Williams Cushing and Georgina Mendel were in the room with Lyons as he voice his mind to them, "I am to return to the Citadel."

"Elder, we don't feel that is the best decision," replied the Scribe as she took a seat on his medical room bed.

"I decide what is best for me and for others as well," answered Owyn Lyons from his sitting position.

"In here, no offense, but I am in charge," said Cushing, as he crossed his arms.

"You of all people should not question me," seethed Lyons as he had a mood swing, he breathed slowly for a second before talking again, "there are items I have left unattended. The sort of things that can not be left unattended."

"Elder Lyons, it is up to me to watch your health and ensure your recovery," answered the doctor, "no matter who you are I will uphold my oath."

"I too have an oath to upkeep," said Lyons with a firm look in his eyes, "and as we both come from organizations bound by honor, I hope you will respect my decision."

"Much wiser men than you have made worse decisions before, and as every fiber in my being compels me to keep you here and lock down," the doctor sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I have no real power to keep you here. You may leave when you feel the need to."

"Thank you, Doctor Cushing," Lyons shifted in his chair to look at Mendel, "get a vertibird ready, Scribe Mendel."

"Yes, Elder Lyons," agreed Mendel as she walked out of the room and was quickly followed by Peter Cushing.

"Georgina, you and I both know it's too soon for him to leave," he said as he kept pace with her, "give him a month, maybe two, more to recover. He can't even stay awake for twelve hours."

"I wasn't the one that backed down in there," corrected the Scribe, "you did that on your own, Cushing."

"Then you need to watch him like a hawk," he said, shrugging off the verbal rebuke, "if any conditions worsen he needs to be brought back here quickly."

"I doubt he'll keep me as his personal physician," answered Mendel, her own thoughts on returning to her research.

"Make it so you are the only choice," pushed Cushing as they made their way to the overseers office, "how many of your group would seek the expertise of a former Enclave doctor?"

_Not many_, thought Georgina, "I need to arrange Elder Lyons' transport to the Citadel," Cushing nodded walked away.

The judges of Grayditch sat in a dimly lit room serving as their their chambers as they looked over each others notes for both trials. There was a clear prejudice against Galvin Cobb, manly lead by Marshall Lawson. The two Brotherhood of Steel members were in a tricky situation. The court was split on the attempted murder charge, however, the private property was clearly unanimous amongst them.

Sheila Torres – Brandice sighed as she looked over the file again. Closing arguments would occur soon. Before those final statements, on last witness was to take the stand. The most important of all the witnesses was Doctor Weston Lesko. Healed and able to talk, he was to be questioned tomorrow. Torres – Brandice looked at how her colleagues were leaning based on their written notes. She sighed, knowing she would be the deciding vote on life or death. Exile was an option to keep one alive, but the other member of the Brotherhood of Steel, Lolli Pop, had the most damning evidence against him. The shoe was about to fall and Torres – Brandice knew she'd have to make the right decision for Grayditch, and her own blemished and pock – marked conscious.

A/N: Thank you for patiently waiting for this latest chapter. Work and school have picked up and in my spare moments I write out the chapters long hand to later transcribe on the computer. There will be only one more chapter in the Trials of Diplomacy series, it will be a noticeably larger chapter as it is half written and on two notebooks already. The next of the series is also getting outlined, no title as of yet, but it will look into the individual stories of the BIOS members more. As always, please read and review. Your reviews lead me to writing better fanfiction!


	12. Dead Reckoning

Trials of Diplomacy

Chapter 12: Dead Reckoning

Operative Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors had set up the Scribe and temporary team for security at the Republic. The Mister Handy was getting calibrated to work on construction with parameters for brick and mortar. The two intelligence agents were on board the vertibird again, the plan was to visually scout the area north by north west of the Republic. Reports of the Enclave moving personnel in and out piqued interest for BIOS. Bors was riding shotgun with the pilot as Schieber was strapped into the back with their robot companion Trip still in it's shipping container.

The terrain under the vertibird hardly changed. The quick winds, desertification and ruins of the old world littered the landscape. The patchy cloud cover gave some ability for the vertibird to hide at a low altitude. When out of cloud cover, Bors would scan the area. The vertibird passed over the beginnings of a dead burnt out forest.

"Turn north up here, too much cover in those woods," said Bors as he turned to the back, "Quin, come see this."

Schieber unbuckled from his seat and clanked forward to the cockpit, "are those... trees?

A burnt down forest stretched for miles into the east. Devoid of leaves and branches, the remains of trees stood upright like standing pikes. The tough wind had knocked several trees from the parameter of the forest over, but the relative dense standing of the woods prevented all of the spikes from tumbling down. There was a ping on the vertibird's sonar system.

"Someone or something is trying to read our IFF code," stated the pilot before there was an alarm sound, "shit!"

Bors and Schieber looked over to the pilot, "what do you mean, shit?"

The alarm got louder as the pilot began to turn the vertibird, "we're getting locked on by... a surface to air missile."

The beeping was a solid alarm now, "we didn't see any missile go off."

"The first one is a warning," answered the pilot, his face scared, "brace for impact!"

The missile exploded next to the tail end of the vertibird, shrapnel shot through the plane. Pressurized air was being lose though the small fissures in the travel compartments. Papers were flying around the back as Schieber ran and grabbed his helmet and tossed Bors his. The pilot was only in recon armor and on the vertibird's breathing system. Over the internal communication system.

"The main rudder is fragged, even trying to level off is like steering a sinking boat," commented the pilot, "have you two done a hard drop yet?"

"Only in simulations," replied Bors as he pulled Schieber to the back of the vertibird.

"What is a hard drop," asked Quin as he looked to Bors.

"Teach him on the way down," ordered the pilot as the alarm started again, "your robot is in the box, attach a chute, I'm opening the bay doors now."

The transport doors opened and the papers flew out. Bors tied a parachute to a metal box with the acronym T.R.I.P. stenciled on to it. He latched the auto – pull line for the chute on a carabiner and kicked the box out of the vertibird. It tumbled as the line grew taught and the beige parachute unfurled to slow it's haste to the earth. Bors then grabbed Schieber by the shoulder plates.

"Jamie, what is a hard drop," asked Schieber in a panic as he watched Trip tumble to the ground.

Boors looked the Operative in the eyes, the alarm getting louder and more steady, "there is a light parachute built into T – 45d power armor. Only initiate the parachute when you near two hundred feet from the ground, it will slow you enough for a survivable impact."

"Impact, wait...just WAIT!" Yelled Quintus as Bors tossed him out of the vertibird.

Jamie turned back to the pilot, the cockpit was bathed in red light, "see you on the other side, Brother," he said while hold out a fist to represent might.

Bors nodded and jumped back, out of the vertibird. He floated in the air, traveling down quickly because of the weight of his suit and the speed he was originally traveling. Bors saw his colleague flailing in the air as he tightened up and speech up to him. Just as he reached out and grabbed Schieber by the shoulder plates, the vertibird exploded into a flaming wreck.

"Fuck you, fuck you," was all Schieber was screaming as he and Bors gained terminal velocity, "you threw me out of the fucking vertibird!"

Bors took the moment to ignore the comment as some debris caught up speed with them, "we have a few seconds so listen carefully."

The only word that came to the Operative's mind as he fell through the are was, "fuck."

"At two hundred feet, tap your right chest plate three times," said Bors as he continued to fall, and try to stand up and bend your knees as best as you can."

"Have you ever done this before," asked the Drayden Operative.

"I've been class A tested three hundred and eighty – eight times in simulations," assured Jamie Bors.

"And in real life," Schieber was getting nervous as he talked to Bors and the ground came closer and closer.

"After this one," asked Bors as he kept a mind on the approaching ground, "initiate the chute... NOW!"

Both men tapped their right chest plates three times and a small compartment in their back exploded out. A light parachute expanded to lift them a hundred and fifty feet in the air in a jolt. The had halfed their falling speed, enough for the power armor to absorb the fall. Two identical puffs of dust came from the ground.

Schieber saw nothing but darkness as he lay still, he guessed he hadn't opened his eyes yet but he could still hear; Bors coughed into the internal communication unit, "that would be my first real hard jump," all Schieber could do was grown out the only word on his mind, _fuck_.

Court had returned to session under the lead of the Head Justice Torres – Brandice. She, along with the other Justices Lawson, LaCroix, Van Dyke, and Randall sat behind the raised wooden podium serving as their bench. Jameson sat at the defense table with her two clients. The Brotherhood Operatives looked tired as the trial had lasted until the beginning days of December. The prosecutor, Thomas Notley, primed himself like a peacock, had the birds been able to live through the Great War. His star witness was alive and present, for him the case was closed.

"Doctor Lesko, whom were the men that invaded your house," he asked plainly as he turned to the public gallery.

"It would be those two that sit at the table over there," pointed the Doctor to Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop.

"Did they attack you," asked Notley.

"Yes," answered Lesko in his high pitched voice.

"Did you fire a shot at them to provoke them," asked the prosecutor.

"No, I never carry a weapon," Doctor Lesko said, "but I saw the other man reach for a weapon. So I warned Scribe Mendel."

"And have you ever met these men before," Notley was trying to show that Lesko had no prior knowledge of them, but they had knowledge of him.

"No," answered the Doctor.

"Would it suprise you that they had detailed notes on you, Doctor Lesko," Thomas Notley closed his file.

"It would not," answered the egghead of Grayditch.

"I am done with this witness, thank you Doctor Lesko," said Notley as he sat behind the desk.

"The defense may proceed," commanded Torres – Brandice.

"Doctor Weston Lesko, why did it not surprise you that two men were collecting data on you," Elizabeth asked as she stood up.

"My work with ants cause the interest of the Brotherhood of Steel," replied Lesko on his own self importance.

"Has the Brotherhood of Steel ever investigated you for being a member of the Enclave," asked Jameson plainly.

"Scribe Mendel can vouch that I have not, nor have I ever been in the employ of the Enclave," stated Lesko as a matter of fact.

"Did you seek out employment with the Enclave," pushed Jameson.

"Objection, you honors, this line of questioning is pointless," Notley stood up and slammed his fist down.

"Overruled, counselor," stated Torres – Brandice as she looked to the other judges, "answer the question, Doctor Lesko."

"I...yes...but with reason," said Lesko taken aback, "it was before I had set up here. I needed money to setup a lab, facilities to test, and the Enclave had that ability."

"Did you fear that these members of the Brotherhood of Steel were Enclave agents," asked Jameson calmly.

"No," said Lesko, curtly.

"Who did you think they were at the time," Jameson pressed, "what made you so scared of them?"

Lesko had paused, "I don't know, I don't know why I was scared."

"Doctor Lesko, any two men breaking into a house is scary," Elizabeth leaned on the desk, "but you had other ideas about them. What were they?"

"Objection, your honors, defense counsel is badgering the..." Notley had stood up and was red in the face.

"I thought they were SRB agents!" Exclaimed Lesko was the public gallery gasped and chattered in confusion and excitement.

"Order, I will have order in this court," shouted Torres – Brandice as she banged her gavel.

"Doctor Lesko, why would the Synth Retention Bureau of the Commonwealth be after you," Jameson was scrawling down her notes, surprised by Lesko answer.

Sobbing lightly, "I am a... a former scientist from the Commonwealth, I have with me specific knowledge," answered Lesko with a look in his eyes that he held back what he outright knew in fear, "I've been constantly looking over my shoulder since I left New Cambridge."

"So would it be safe to say that your paranoia fueled your actions of ordering Scribe Mendel to fire on Mister Alvarado and then lead to Mister Pop's actions," Jameson was fishing to prove causality and a lack of planning.

"Uh...no," stated Lesko as Elizabeth sat down.

"Are you finished with the witness," asked the Head Justice.

"Yes," said Elizabeth Jameson.

"I think it is a prime time to adjourn for the day," commented Torres – Brandice, "closing statements are tomorrow starting at noon."

The courtroom began to empty out under the control of the Marshalls. Elizabeth Jameson approched Doctor Weston Lesko as he left the stand, and held him at the his elbow. She leaned into his ear.

"We will talk of the Commonwealth later, understood," she turned and walked to talk with her clients; Doctor Lesko just gulped and continued to shake in fear.

Operative Daniel Roe stood outside of a dilapidated building that once was a town house. The roof had caved in, the windows were all busted, and debris remained everywhere inside. Star Paladin Bael tossed him a set of keys, though the lock on the door still worked the door itself had been rotted out. The six ghouls looked to their new contract holder and their supposed mercenary leader.

"This is your new home, mind you it cost me a fair amount of caps," chuckled Bael as the wind seemed to make the brick structured wedged between similar row houses shake, "I've added it to the total expenses you owe me and big brother, Roe."

While 'big brother' was not the code word for the Brotherhood of Steel, Roe got the meaning. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it obviously bore rotted teeth, Roe walked up the small stone stoop. The key took some work to be forced into the lock but the door opened all the same. The foyer was clear of the large debris and all the rooms on the first floor were habitable. The Operative and ghouls walked around the first floor and Cristano Bael walked into the foyer.

"Have your team set up in a room, we still need to talk," said Baelas he walked into an empty room.

Roe told the ghouls to set up in an empty room as he joined Bael who already had a paper map rolled out and several pages loose on an old coffee table, "what do we need to talk about, Star Paladin?"

"Walls have ears, Operative, just refer to me as Steel Heart when we meet in person from now on," corrected Bael, "first thing, the payments for your team need to be reimbursed in full. You will send three – fourths of all earnings to the coffers of big brother, this is non – negotiable. I will check on the books every – so – often. Also, you are not to spend any time near Crowley's Games and Cards, your job there is done."

"Will that be all, Steel Heart," asked Roe as he realized the Brotherhood Brass were tightening the reigns on him.

"No, it is not all," said Bael as he pointed to the documents, "sign these so that if you need to face another tribunal I will have paper evidence. The key part you forgot was not getting caught and then dragging my name through the mud."

_I did as you asked_, Star Paladin, thought Roe as he signed the papers, "and how much money will I receive to fix up this place," asked the Operative.

"That is up to you," answered Bael as he collected the papers and stored them safely, "as for your side mission, in the next couple of days we will see what happens. However, be prepared."

Roe looked at the map, "have the Grayditch Council chosen an area yet?"

Bael pointed to a cross roads on the map that was in the upper – city ruins yet to be inhabited, "crossroads of Church Street and Yew Avenue. The options were present and chosen, we are nearly a hundred percent certain on Cobb's fate."

"Who will take the shots," asked Dan as he scoured the old road map.

"Grayditch Guards, leave as many alive as possible," replied the Star Paladin, "no more than six men and Marshall Lawson himself. The Marshall is not to be killed."

"Any teams there right now," Roe was running though ideas in his head.

"No, a patrol passes by on every Monday and Thursday at mid – day," as he prepared to leave, "can I trust you not to get caught this time, or to spill my name like a coward?"

Operative Daniel Roe nodded and watched the Star Paladin leave, "everyone, lets pack up for a quick scouting of a vital area."

Operative Hannah Newton and Knight Michael Ban found themselves in the Mall, a location they had been a few months previously. The cold weather had lead to rain and flurries ice crystals occurring on cold nights. The streets were wet and occasionally filled with slush that did not seep into their power armor. The Prince of Brandia, his Prime Advisor, and their sixteen body guards proceeded on foot, leaving their steeds at the main encampment. The guards wore heavily downed coats and worn leather boots with traditional clothing and light armor underneath. The Prince held a shield tied to his back that was half white and half blue with a vertical line separating them. Tied to his hip, like that of all his men, rested a blade that looked more complex the tempered steel.

They began to walk to the Washington Monument as Ban kept his finger on the trigger and his laser rifle close to his chest. Newton tightened the shoulder strap of her ten millimeter sub – machine gun as she swiveled her head to scan the area. They approached two of their fellow Brotherhood of Steel members in front of the monument, their colleagues either resting or patrolling another area. The Knights had to keep track of the slave refuge at the Lincoln Memorial along with the antenna for GNR.

"Tour guide duty," commented the Knight Captain, a smile in his voice.

"The Prince of Brandia is stretching his legs in the Mall," replied Ban as a series of explosions went off in the Capitol building end of the Mall, "anything major going down that way?"

"Talon moved back in for operations, Mutties still heavily entrenched though," answered the Knight Captain, "trenches still a mess of blood and gore, controlled by the Mutties, but they know to stay away from this post."

"Let's hope that it stays that way," commented Ban slowly as he noticed a movement to his left; one of body guards jumping down into the trenches, "shit! What the hell, get back with the others! Newton, secure the Prince!"

Hannah turned around to see the other body guards move forward along with the Prince of Brandia, "your Majesty we'll get your men from the trench. It would be safer for you to remain up here though."

"Some leaders see it as being okay to have their men fight in the trenches, I prefer to join mine," replied Louis Brandian as his men jumped into the dug up earth, "so you must ask yourself; are you willing to watch as a bystander or take part of an adventure."

Louis Brandian and Charles Everidge were helped into the trench by their body guards. Their swords drawn for close quarters combat. Newton stood next to Ban, under her helmet she had a dumb founded expression. Ban was equally perplexed as he waved the two other Knights over.

"We're going into the trench, cover us, we need to get those idiots out of their," he asked as he bent down and slide into the dug out earth.

"We have limited amount of ammo," responded the Knight Captain as he tapped the mini gun.

Newton turned to them, "we're going to try and pull them out, our retreat will need more cover than us entering," she said as she lowered herself.

The two Operatives ran to meet up with the body guards and the Prince. As they approached from behind the Princes guards held up their swords. Ban tried to swat the blades away. He got an electrical shock that caused him to pull his arm away in pain.

"Brandian, Everidge, we need to get top side," pleaded Ban as the defensive circle opened to allow the power armored Operatives, "you do not have the equipment to deal with Super Mutants or Talon Company."

Louis Brandian lifted four fingers and then one. The four closest guards holstered their swords and pulled a metal compartment from their back. In unison they released a button and expanded the boxes into full form rifles. The rifles had no visible magazine, but a rectangular muzzle with multiple barrels.

"What the fuck are those, this violates the terms on personal defense," outraged Ban as another set of four body guards switched to the guns.

"We all have our secrets, Sir Ban," said the Lord of Brighton, "surely now we are better armed to make it to the national archives."

"I will not have you jeopardized the lives of all these people," said Ban firmly.

"We have chosen this adventure," replied the Prince, "now it is up to you to choose if you will join us this day."

Ban thought for a moment as Newton nodded, "I can't let you die in here, It is my duty to protect you and to avoid any accidents, for the future of relations between our nations."

"How terribly... logical," the Prince smiled as he patted Ban's cold metal, "welcome to the adventure, Sir Ban."

The Prince and Prime Advisor still had their swords drawn. Keeping the shield on his back had not moved, the tight formation proceeded forward. Eight of the guards had their swords drawn, the other eight were using the compacted guns. The group stopped at a carve in the trench, the Prince ordered one of his guards to scout ahead. The guard with a sword closest to the turn in the trench edged forward to the crest.

Using his blade, the body guard was able to see down the turn in the trench. Two green figures, unlike anything he had seen before, were at the end. He turned back to the group and flashed two fingers and then held his index and middle finger together and pointed to the left and right walls of the trench. Ban and Newton now knew the super mutant menace were present and this stroll in the Mall was going to turn into a large fire fight.

Louis Brandian nodded his understanding, choosing two guards with guns by tapping them on the shoulders. The two guards jumped into the open and opened fire on the super mutants. Not as loud as a typical gun, noted Ban on the weapons, likewise, the muzzle flash was minimal. Knight Ban and Operative Newton moved forward with the rest of the group. The super mutants were vaporized from the waist up, parts remained and flew off in different directions. Michael Ban kicked the remains of a mutant hand from a hunting rifle out of habit because the finger was still on the trigger.

The power of the compact weapons used by the body guards shocked Ban and Newton. As they got to the end of the trench, the group came to a door of an old bunker made by the Brotherhood of Steel and stairs leading up to the street. The path to the national archives were up the earthen steps and to the immediate east. Ban walked behind the cover that was erected in front of the bunker door. Leaning up against the barrier was a set of rusted out power armor with a gaping chest wound that exposed the human remains inside.

Prince Louis Brandian, Charles Everidge, and the royal body guards took the brief moment to consult a map. Newton watched as Ban knelt down to remove the holotag from the long fallen member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Checking the name on the tag, he locked it into a compartment on his power armor. Newly twenty years of harsh weather conditions had rusted out the power armor, the laser rifle, and the open plate led to soft tissue decomposition leaving skeletal remains.

Looking at Newton, Michael Ban said, "Paladin Nivi, her real name was Evelyn Snowfall, mortally wounded in the second battle of the Mall, in the year Two Thousand Fifty – Nine."

"Did you know her," asked Hannah through the communication unit in her helmet.

"Not personally, but she would be around the same age as Sentinel Cross," answered Ban through the comm system, "did you get a copy of the weapons?"

"Did a helmet recording to capture them in action," answered Newton as she tapped her helmet, "lets hope we live through this...grinding, to analyze it."

Ban sighed through his helmet as he turned to see the Prime Advisor to the Prince approaching the two power armored Brotherhood of Steel members. His dashing rogue look had been enhanced by a few weeks of facial hair growth. His saunter was similar to what one would envision in a pre – War part stroll.

"Isn't this a great adventure, trying to reclaim lost relics," smiled the Lord of Brighton.

"No, it's a folly," Ban's face was straight and his tone was flat, "we are entering a war zone between two parties that we're not on good terms with, in areas that don't have any back up or support. If we do get to the national archives, for whatever reason you want to be there, we do not have enough man power to secure it, let alone the fact that when we do wake our retreat back this way no one will be a rear guard."

"You are sounding a lot like the King's military advisor," replied Lord Brighton with a small frown, "but can you not see the good of this adventure? We may only have a brief time in the archives to preserve vital knowledge! We can't let it fall into the hands of these... heathens!"

Everidge kicked the dead body of one of the super mutants. Some more blood and gone fell out of the remain bit of torso with chopped up organs. There was a roar from the top of the rampart to the left of the trench as a super mutant pulled back the bolt of it's hunting rifle. A guard with a compact gun aimed and unloaded two volleys into the mutants head. The super mutant's head and shoulders disappeared in to particles less then mist.

The guards gave a short huzzah and the Prince even slapped the man on the back. Taking the praise in an overly jovial state, the guard asked a fellow guard to take a picture of him. The Prince's body guard bounded up the rampart and kicked the super mutant's body over to show the chest. He picked up the mutant's hunting rifle and rested the stock of the weapon on his thigh and the stock of the compact gun on his other thigh.

The camera flashed to take the picture just as a super mutant brute armored in sheet metal appeared behind him. The green brute held a bumper in it's two hands, one end was sharpened like a blade. Thrusting forward, the large bumper sword entered the guard through the lower back. Swinging back, the brute increased the size of the wound and lifted the guard upwards.

Tossed backwards, falling to the ground bleeding to death, the guard cried out. The Prince's body guards surrounded his majesty, Louis Brandian. Compact guns were fired, volley after volley, tearing apart the armor but not penetrating the skin. Effective against organic material and light armor, the compact guns took several skilled users to neutralize an armored target. The brute's hardened skin did not help with bullet penetration.

Ban lifted up his laser rifle and cut three quick beams into the super mutant brute's head. It tumbled like a sack of potatoes. He walked forward and leaned close to the Prince. His communicator loud and clear.

"I lead forward from now on, no more showboating, no trophy taking, follow me and live," said Ban with no sympathy or pain, "we move forward with caution. Back – to – back."

Operative J.R. and Zachary Zimm sat together in Silver's Den. As of yet, the Operatives had no luck or chance to try and win over the madame of the brothel, strip, and go – go club. Silver knew the boys and the two Operatives knew the madame, but neither were at a point to breach a topic of mutual work. Crowley was easily to push away from Moriarty because he hated smoothskins and decreased profit. Ashkelon wanted power, and so he clamored for leadership.

Silver, on the other hand, cared for her employers. They weren't cheap sources of money, a happy whore was a good earning whore. The biggest issue that faced the brothel was the serial rape forced upon her girls by Moriarty's guards. As they protected the prostitutes, the guards felt they had a right to their bodies free of charge. J.R. and Zimm were not in a place to change anything as there were more guards than Brotherhood of Steel Operatives. Instead, they waited and observed.

Zimm was still nursing his cheek, "have Bael or Yearling given any orders," he sipped his hard liquor slowly.

"Observe and report," replied J.R. as he took a swig of beer, "they want us to follow up on Regulator activities in the town and other parties."

"Simms was the only known Regulator, but the area has gone to the raiders," said Zimm as he tossed a few caps onto the stage as the dancer crawled to him, "Megaton seems to have a … dirty feel to it, Springvale is in a worse off state."

"Not every place can be like the Citadel or Rivet City," J.R. scolded as he was born in the nearby town and understood how people lived more so than thinking how they ought to live.

"I'm not trying to be mean or... I don't know, condescending... but aren't we trying to better the lives of people and all," Zimm's eyes darted back and forth from the whore and J.R.

"It depends on your definition of better," said J.R. as he slung back more beer.

From the second floor breaking glass could be heard. A door slammed loudly as a woman ran out crying and tripped on the staircase. She tumbled down the flight of stairs. The whore landed with her back against the wall, there were cuts along her calves and feet. She panted, her charcoal lined eyes running from her tears, gasping for breathe. The door opened and slammed again as a gruff man staggered out.

He had grizzled beard and hair sticking out at all ends. The long underwear he wore was actually a mechanic jumpsuit with the arms tied around his waist. Blood trickled down the back of his head as he squinted, on hand holding his long underwear up and a broken piece of jagged glass in his hand. People on the upper balcony moved away from the enraged man with a slow gate.

"Fucking bitch!" Roared the man as he swing the glass knife at nothing but air, "Imma stick you, whore! Think you can get me, eh? Fucking bitch!"

Zimm held onto J.R.'s wrist and forearm with one hand, "what the fuck, Zack," mouthed J.R.

"See how none of the guards are stopping him," whispered the Operative as their eyes shifted from guard to guard.

"He's a guard," stated J.R. and taking on the role of Captain Obvious.

Silver ran out to the assistance of her whore, "stay back, or I'll plug you full of holes!"

"Get out of it whore master," said the injured guard.

"I said stay back," the whore clung to Silver's leg as the madam leveled the thirty – two caliber revolver a the guard's chest.

"Best to put her out of your mind," seethed the guard, "as Imma gonna kill that whore!"

"Come a step closer and you'll be bleeding on the floor," warned Silver.

"Shoot me and all these boys will take you down like the bitch you are, Silver," said the guard as he stepped forward more.

Silver pulled the trigger and the loud bang was magnified by the sound of silence in the brothel. Looking forward and clutching his stomach, the guard felt the bullet enter. He raised up and staggered forward with the broken glass as a blade. Silver fired for more shots, all point blank.

The guard fell down, chest and face on the landing next to Silver and the whore. His legs askew and on the stairs as blood pooled around his body. Silver looked to the other guards whom barely shifted as their colleague's blood covered the landing of the staircase. One – by – one, Moriarty's guards left the brothel. No comments or fights were uttered or started, they left Silver and her whores completely undefended.

Scribe Elizabeth Jameson, Proctor for the Order of the Quill, sat at the defense of the two Operatives, Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop. She had prepared them for the worst, seeing the inside information that was given by private conversation with Susan LaCroix. Elizabeth didn't attempt to push the woman to her own personal decision, nor did she use people like Georgina Mendel to influence choices. Despite the lack of evidence and the circumstances around the crime, the justices seemed pretty set in their final rulings. Now it was up to a final statement; a summation of what happened and a plea for leniency from the judges.

If she could sway just one judge, just one, she could save the fate of the Brotherhood of Steel Operatives. Her and Elder Lyons set out to change the structure of the wasteland. Jameson established a rule of law, a system to create law, and the following of such law even to the detriment of the Brotherhood of Steel. Thomas Notley finished his closing statement to a round of applause in the gavel to quiet the crowd.

"Miss Jameson, you may proceed with the defense's closing statement," Justice Torres – Brandice instructed.

Elizabeth stood up and faced the justices, "your honors, and esteemed citizens of Grayditch, I stand before you dressed in the robes of a Brotherhood Scribe. The defendants stand before you for the last few weeks were members of the Brotherhood of Steel. How Mister Notley describes the events, would imply that the Brotherhood of Steel had ordered an assassination on Doctor Weston Lesko. However, Mister Notley lacks evidence of this claim. It is the burden of the prosecution to present evidence of quilt, not suspicion.

Notley jumped from his table, "your honors!"

"You are out of order, Assistant Mayor Notley," reprimanded Torres – Brandice, "sit down, shut your mouth, and allow defense Counselor Jameson to finish."

Elizabeth continued after taking a calming deep breathe, "Mister Notley has been playing on the assumption of guilt the whole city of Grayditch has come to take as fact for my clients. But we must remember that assumption of guilt is tantamount to the law that was around before this system was created. The Law of Grayditch is innocent until proven guilty, and Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop are not guilty of premeditated attempted murder. Did they break into Doctor Weston Lesko's house? Possibly.

"Though the only word we have attesting to that is from Doctor Weston Lesko. The good doctor even admits his own paranoia biased the events of that day. This led to a member of the Brotherhood of Steel attempting to protect the doctor and causing permanent injury to a fellow member of the Brotherhood.

"Mister Alvarado can no longer use his left arm, the nerve endings are all dead, because of friendly fire," Elizabeth paused to catch her breathe, "lying down on the ground, Alvarado could harm no one. Lolli Pop, having just seen his colleague, peer, and friend gunned down, he flew into a fit of passion. Not premeditated, he was emotional, he was loyal, and he sought to hurt the man that hurt his friend. We should all be so luckily to home a friend like Mister Pop, one that looks to protect and avenge.

"How can one be guilty of a being a good friend?" Scribe Jameson asked all those assembled, "these boys had an incident. An incident that become monumentally worse, but it was not planned in anyway. Do not punish them more than needs to be administered, good friends looking out for each other do not deserve persecution; no matter what background, what uniform or what values they follow. I appeal to you honorable justices, please do not allow a miscarriage of justice in your first trial as it will set a precedent for the future. Grayditch deserves a bright future, a future where each person is innocent until proven guilty by overwhelming evidence produced by the prosecutor. Be the shinning the example to the rest of the wasteland."

Scribe Elizabeth Jameson finished to light applause that did not last long. She sat in her chair, a dower look on her face. The judges conferred together briefly. A few seconds turned into minutes, the courtroom was quiet as they waited. Sheila Torres – Brandice turned to the prosecutor and defender.

"The justices are calling for a recess so as to discuss how the court will proceed," the justices stood as well as everyone in the courtroom, "please remain in your seats, Marshalls, ensure the doors are locked."

Two Marshalls locked the doors to prevent the defendants from leaving and allowed everyone wait for the redirect. There were hushed conversations between people in the public gallery as Notley leaned back and stretched his legs. Jameson leaned to her directs and talked with them directly. Alvarado and Pop looked scared with their lips held tight together.

"I'd say this is routine, but this is the first time that a decision like this is going to be made. Each justice has been drafting their opinions and signing onto others," Elizabeth Jameson was slightly hopeful as the minutes turned to nearly an hour; the justices came back into the courtroom, "whatever happens, know that we have a plan in place...we will save you."

They nodded as they stood to receive their judgment; Torres – Brandice addressed the defendants and the crowd, "the Court of Grayditch, after much consideration, has come to a decision to split the rulings on charges. For the first count, breaking and entry of a private residence with undo cause, we, the court, find defendants guilty in an unanimous decision."

The public gallery exploded into applause celebrating the victory over the Brotherhood of Steel, "order in the court! Such outbursts will not be tolerated," reprimanded the lead of Grayditch court as she banged her gavel; once order was required she proceeded, "the second count against the defendants, theft of property privately owned or claimed, we find in a majority decision of four, with one dissent, that both defendants are guilty. "

Alvarado and Pop shifted as they stood in front of their chairs as Torres – Brandice continued, "the last charge, attempted murder, the court has decided in a four to one decision to dismiss the charges against Mister Juan Alvarado. In a majority decision of three, with two dissenting, the court finds Mister Lolli Pop guilty of the attempted murder of Doctor Weston Lesko."

The public gallery exploded in applause, screeches of happiness, and shouts of joy. Judge Torres – Brandice banged her gavel on the table hard and harder. The Marshalls moved to guard the defendants from the crowd. Assistant Mayor Thomas Notley had a smug smile plastered on his face. Lolli Pop slumped his shoulders in defeat, Operative Alvarado squeezed his hand in support, to let him know he still had friends by his side.

"For the first two charges, the court sentences Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop to exile. For the third and most heinous charge, the court sentences Lolli Pop to death by firing squad to be carried out on December seventeenth, in the year Two Thousand Two Hundred and Seventy – Nine," said Torres – Brandice as she saw Lolli Pop go incredibly pale, "the courts' written reasons, including majority and all dissents. Marshalls, please escort Mister Pop back to his cell to await execution. Mister Alvarado, you are hereby exiled and banned from the City of Grayditch. You will be escorted to the city limits by armed Marshalls. If you are found back within the city limits for as naturally long as your life may last, you will be arrested, tried, and sentenced to death for disobeying your sentence. The City of Grayditch against Juan Alvarado and Lolli Pop is adjourned."

Operative Quintus Schieber was lifted from the impression made in the ground by the hard jump with the help of Knight Jamie Boors. Both of their power armor had saved their lives but looked worse the wear for it. Some parts were bent and dinged. One of Schieber's shoulder plates had fallen off and a servo in Bors leg had malfunctioned causing him to drag it as he could no longer move that heavy piece of armor. The shining metal of their power armor was now covered in brown green dirt.

The BIOS Operatives had survived the hard drop, landing outside of shaking timber forest. The burning ruins of the vertibird had fell into the forest causing small fires in the dried wood. Schieber's laser rifle was in pieces, the only weapon he had left was his weak ten millimeter pistol. Bors removed his helmet and sat down on it, his leg unable to bend because of the damaged servos. Spitting blood into the dirt, a tooth had been chipped in the fall, Bors turned to the younger man.

"We got two plays here," said the Knight as Quin nodded, "we could try and make it back to the Republic, but we're three days away by foot and no foreseeable water was visible on the passover. The second choice is together Trip, collect the black box of the vertibird, explore where those friggen Uncle Sams came from and send the robot back with out data in case there is no foreseeable way to survive the area."

"Possible rescue through a retreat or possibly gain tech knowledge, and tools to help the Capitol survive," posed the young Operative in another way, "is there really such a question?"

Bors laughed in a booming sound that shook the trees and echoed in the emptiness, "let's get the damn robot."

It took a few hours, darkness had already settled in when they found Trip. The crate holding the robot hung from a tree by the lines of military parachute attached to it. Instead of climbing the tree, Schieber was able to cut it down with a hatchet he kept handy. They recovered Trip, the robot being in better shape then each of them. As the robot did a system check to insure integrity of its functions Bors knelt down to the ground and drew in the dirt with a stick.

"What are you doing," asked the Drayden Operative as he sharpened the blade of his hatchet.

"Hmmm...calculating our current position," Bors would look up into the sky and back to equations he drew into the dirt.

"Based on the stars," thought Schieber outloud.

"Actually, based on the position of where we landed, to that of Trip and the visible crash site," said Bors as he sketched numbers," with a concentrating look on his face, "I'm calculating fall velocity, along with drift, to determine our position as it was in the air."

"We're on the ground," Schieber wanted to point out the obvious in case Bors missed it, Quin looked at the numbers and symbols, "and our location is right on the edge of a huge dead forest."

Bors looked up to Schieber with a mix of dread and basement, "we jumped out of a vertibird while it was in the process of turning west to head south. The flight was over thirty minutes at a slow speed, and I rather know where we are to determine how long it would take to return."

"If we don't plan to return, why would they need this information," Quin removed his helmet and sat down on it he began to clear off a branch.

"So that they can recover our bodies and follow this route to wherever it is those Uncle Sams and Enclave vertibirds went, my guess is that they are one in the same," answered Bors as he saw the Operative whittling the wood, "and pray tell what are you doing."

"Making a smooth shaft to start a fire," Quin looked down the branch, "I'm going to collect some of those branches off and then make camp.

Bors grunted as both men worked on surviving the best ways they knew how, one for posterity and the other for modern convenience. They camped the night in that location, their power armor helped to keep them warm by recirculating air heated by their own bodies. They both woke to the sunrise in the morning. They had limited food and water, and Trip did not give them promising readings. Schieber took out his pack of smokes, a terrible habit he hardly ever showed in public, he passed one to Bors.

"It'll suppress our hunger," stated the Operative as they both walked and smoked to the still burning wreckage of the vertibird.

Very little of the vertibird remained, it looked like twisted metal that was still on fire in few parts with debris scattered around. Some of the old trees had been crushed, cracked, and fallen by the debris. A secondary explosion must have occurred as some metal chunks were firmly lodged in wood. The trees that had caught fire were already smoldering. The ashes cracked under Schieber's feet as a line formed from Bors dragging his leg.

The put their helmets on as the radiation levels increased near the wreckage. Any attempt for human eyes to find salvage were a waste of time because of the fire damage, missile explosion, and fall from a great height. Schieber and Bors ordered Trip to recover the black box and the pilot's holotag. The robot returned with a scorched metal box and holotag of the pilot. Bors stored the tag in his armor as he forced the black box open and removed the full holotape recording. He stored the flight information in Trip's storage compartment.

The two Operatives began to walk in the direction pointed out by Jamie Bors. They would stop periodically to gain their barrings and correct how they were to travel. Based on Bors' calculations, they were able to determine location relatively on a rough map of Maryland. Nearing dusk they came to a depression in the remains of the forest.

The depression went on for a long way, there were smoking areas with high levels of radiation. In the middle of depression stood an old and crumbling building made of once cream marble. Bors walked into the depression and found that under the dirt and grime was ancient and cracked parking lot. Jamie Bors looked to Quintus Schieber and they both made their way forward. Trip reported the high levels of radiation and structural damage as the two moved forward to the decrepit building.

Bors foot shuffled as it hit something under the damaged asphalt. He and Operative Schieber bent down to pick the item up. It was a small metal sign on a post that was mangled. Schieber brushed the sign to remove dirt and debris. The sign was worn and had some legible letters written in black:

**ort Mea**

**SA Park g ON**

Operative Anna LaCroix walked the streets of Grayditch. She wore simple wasteland clothes, it left her completely incognito amongst the everyday citizenry of the city. Yearling had given her an assignment, her first in the field. She wore nothing that could be linked to the Brotherhood of Steel, not even her holotag. Her only weapon was a knife, concealed in a forearm holster. She tightened the the hood around their head in a move to cut down on the chilly weather that had set in.

She saw her mark on the street, he was heading to one of the stores set up around Grayditch. LaCroix had gone over the blueprints of the man's house. Most wasteland households were simple, yet this man had special permits for future additions on the town house he occupied. Anna LaCroix walked past him, not ready to take him in the open market. She made a byline for his place of residence. There was an armed man in the front of her target's townhouse.

Operative Anna LaCroix moved to the back alley of the row of townhouses. There were no guards or doors in the back alley for good reason, most people on this row of streets disposed of household waste and trash from the windows out the back. LaCroix sloughed through the filth to an old wrought iron fire escape that had remained bolted to the brick row houses. She climbed on top of a nearby dumpster, undoing her boots because of their smell. She jumped onto the fire escape and pulled herself up, she made her way up the rickety fireplace and climbed up to a ledge. Balancing her foot on the bannister she jumped to grab the stone ledge and grasping by her fingertips. Knight Captain Galeas had been training her in climbing debris through an obstacle course.

Anna LaCroix was shoeless and balanced on the old townhouses. She walked slowly to her targets unit and carefully lowered herself to the top floor ledge. LaCroix smiled and pushed the window open, _the top floors are through to be the safest_, she thought as she entered her target's office. There was a desk, a chair, and a terminal against the far wall and an armoire to hold clothes and items. LaCroix turned on the terminal and mentally laughed at the ease of the password.

The terminal of her target had all the information of his work, both legal and his illegal operations. Her eyes scrolled down the information, list after list, ledgers and correspondence were all there and detailed. LaCroix heard the door below open as her target entered his house, his work near the stores complete. She hit exit on the terminal and started the shut down mode. LaCroix heard footsteps heading up the stairs, she bolted to the armoire and held her breathe as she removed the knife from her forearm sheath and left the door ajar a bit. The lights in the room were off, but the terminal was still on and bright.

Operative Anna LaCroix saw her target open the door to his office. He brushed his hand to the light switch but stopped before he turned on the light because he noticed the terminal was on. He sat down at the desk and rebooted the system before it closed and shut off completely. LaCroix slowly opened the armoire and stepped out softly with light steps wearing cloth on her feet, her boots still outside. She hid the blade behind her hand so it didn't reflect the light of the terminal.

LaCroix's hand grabbed the man's scalp and the blade was pressed against the neck, "scream and I will cut through your vocal cords," she whispered into his ear.

He struggled but felt the blade to his neck, he tried to look at the reflection of his assailant in the monitor of the terminal, "who are you... if you want money, I keep caps in my safe... just don't kill, kill me," he could not see this person, just felt the blade against his neck.

"You are Joost Van Dyke," stated LaCroix, her voice still a whisper, "judge, merchant, pirate and smuggler, is that correct?"

"Yes..., What, yes... what is this," Joost Van Dyke waffled as his thick medium length hair was pulled by his scalp, the knife firmly pressed to his olive skin as all his muscles tensed, "I demand to know who you are!"

Anna pulled back Judge Van Dyke's scalp, "what did I tell you about yelling out? As to who I am, it is no concern, but what is of concern to you is that we're watching you Mister Van Dyke."

Joost Van Dyke gulped as he just whispered the only thing on his mind, "what do you want me to do?"

"It is not about I," whispered LaCroix as she tightened the blade to Van Dyke's neck, "it is about us all, all of the Wasteland. Your motives are your own, you serve only yourself."

"This is laughable coming from the man with a knife to my neck," Joost Van Dyke resigned himself to die with pride and not shrivel up and pass away with a whimper, "I provide a much needed service for the coastal towns of the Potomac and through to the Eastern Shore. Towns and settlers survive because of me, who are you to question me, who are you!"

"I am the one who holds your life in my hands," whispered LaCroix into Van Dyke's ear, tickling it with her warm breathe that sent shivers of fear down his spine, "just as you hold people's lives in your hand, the will of the Wasteland demands you do not hold anyone's life cheaply."

Joost laughed despite the knife to his throat, "making life is cheap and easy, guy and girl...sometimes even the guy thins optional."

"It's easier to take a life than to make them," replied LaCroix as she traced the knife on his neck, "carotid artery, so easy sever, loss of consciousness in thirty seconds and full exsanguination in four minutes. Would you like to find out?"

"You've made your point," seethed Van Dyke.

"I don't think we have," stated LaCroix as she folded the knife into her forearm holster and locked his head and arm together in a sleeper hold, "we are always watching, pirate, always!"

The judge struggled against Operative LaCroix as he flailed. Anna tightened her hold and eased him into the chair. Van Dyke's eyes rolled into the back of his head as oxygen was stopped from reaching his brain. He slumped forward, completely unconscious as LaCroix moved to the window. She pulled herself up on the ledge and then onto the roof, she walked slowly to the wrought iron fire escape. _Maybe now Van Dyke will think twice about sentencing anyone else to death_, she thought as she made her way to the alley to get her boots, _especially one from her branch of the Brotherhood_.

Operative Hannah Newton was pinned to a single position with Knight Michael Ban. The super mutants had fortified the area of the national archives with sand bags, cars, and bent iron beams. Drummond had proven to be a capable leader and strategist, intelligence amongst the east coast super mutants was to be a dangerous combination. Three more body guards had been killed, or whatever the white and black liquid two of them expelled. Two buildings provided cover for the small party, along with an up turned car.

Ban wrapped his laser rifle around the side of the building and fired blind. Newton turned from the fight to the body guards on her wall. She yelled at them but her no sound come out of her helmet. Hannah clicked her communications unit to talk with the bodyguards. Her voice sounded cold and metallic.

"This is suicide," she stated plain and simple, "what is so important to go through this?"

"The National Archives are the house of knowledge!" Replied one of the guards, "knowledge is the cornerstone of Brandia and the Commonwealth, in knowledge we trust and those that die in the pursuit of knowledge are forever exalted!"

Hannah sighed into her helmet, _these men were all ideologues similar to the Enclave and, admittedly, those that formed the Outcasts_; she switched to her inner comm system with Ban, "this is ridiculous, I'm going to Prince's side, cover me."

"Three, two, one … GO!" Ordered Ban as he stepped out to give covering fire.

Newton hustled to the upturned car and did a tuck and roll to cover. She swiveled her head as she got up to a kneeling position and fired her weapon to the super mutant defenders. The body guards at the up turned car fired at the same time. She flicked her exterior comm unit on.

"I'm passing a message on to the Prince, cover me," she ordered even though she had no place.

The two body guards, both bald with similar features nodded and began to give covering fire as Newton ran to the other building. The majority of the exploration party was located at this cover. She leaned against the wall to catch her breathe as she gained her senses, Ban confirmed she was okay on the other side. Newton walked up to the Prince as he looked over and old tourist map.

"Prince Brandian, I need a moment of your time," Hannah kept her helmet on to hear Ban as well.

"Yes, Lady Newton, what must be discussed," he seemed to be at odds, clearly his day was not going as planned.

"It is mine and Knight Ban's opinion that we retreat, this position is untenable," she said firmly.

"Retreat? Retreat from the hallowed halls of knowledge," Louis Brandian was shocked and full of indignation, "we will hops this ground and take the National Archives."

"Ban, this shit is crazy," commented Newton into her communication unit, her cultural relativistic attitude blown to the wind of the wasteland as lives were at stake, "Prince, we all leave now or you are stuck fighting those mutants alone."

"We can take these heathens down," proudly stated the Prince, his men that were human looked unsure.

Newton growled and grabbed the Prince by his shoulder, his men pointed weapons at her. Hannah looked to them and held her sub – machine gun out to at the guards. Charles Everidge stepped in the way holding his hands up. The Lord of Brighton moved for them to lower their weapons.

"She's got the Prince, do not fire," commanded the Prime Advisor, "you may hit the Prince."

"I want to save the Prince's life, and getting him out of here will save him to rule one day," stated Newton as she looked to the men.

"This is hallowed ground, the essence of information, and great knowledge," commented Louis Brandian as he tried to wrestle away from Newton, "the code to access Davens is at my fingertips!"

_What are the Davens Codes,_ thought Hannah as she stared the prince down, "knowledge is only important when it can be used."

"Information must be preserved, passed on and utilized," stated the Prince calmly as he tired to wrestle away in vain, "these archives will help us against our oldest enemy, and they can help you against your enemy as well!"

"Wait, what?" Asked Newton, Ban was listening in on the communication unit from the other side.

Charles Everidge sighed and stepped forward his hands free, though one was on his sword belt, "the Enclave are coming here, well, back here."

Newton stared at him dumbfounded and let the Prince go, "explain yourself now!"

"Lady Newton, please calm down," said Everidge.

"You have been with holding vital information from the Brotherhood of Steel," Newton fumed as Ban listened in on an open channel, "you will give me that information now."

"You have to understand, Lady Newton, we had the best interests for all partners," the Lord of Brighton tried to talk suavely.

"The information, Lord Brighton," Newton stared him down as bullets hit old pavement and brick.

"Tell her," ordered Louis Brandian.

"Our fleet in the Chesapeake came in contact with an enormous battleship," the Prime Advisor watched his words, "the report from our fleet was that it was Enclave in operation of the vessel and an outpost was created in the former City of Norfolk, Virginia."

"When did you find out about this information," Newton chose that question after Ban had suggested it.

"Three days ago," confirmed the Prince.

_You sat on this information the whole time,_ thought Newton as she clicked her communication device to only talk with Ban, "did you get all of that?"

"Copy that Newton, we're pulling the plug on this operation," replied Ban as he took out several grenades.

She turned to the Prince and Prime Advisor, "we're moving back."

"What? If you want a good chance against the Enclave then we need to get into those archives," the Prime Advisor was livid.

"Lord Brighton, do you see the situation we are currently in," asked Hannah seriously, "we need a better plan than this, we didn't have any scouting reports at all! If we don't pull back now, then everyone here is dead."

The Prime Advisor said nothing but looked to his Prince, "you must promise that we will return to take these halls of knowledge!"

Explosions from Ban's grenades were heard and felt. Debris was scattered everywhere as several mutants died yelling out in pain. Ban warned he was about to toss out the smoke grenades. Newton waited for the count down as the smoke built up to help with the retreat. She pushed the Prince backward as they made their retreat to the trench, two more guards lost their lives in the retreat.

"Promise we'll come back," the Prince said as Newton protected him and pushed him to the trench, "do not in prison us again. We are a sovereign nation!"

"Prince Brandian, I'm more concerned with keeping you a live," replied Newton as Ban and the other guards made it to the trench.

"We're falling back to the Washington Monument, there are turrets and a team there," ordered Michael Ban as he moved back to the Mall entrance and the Brotherhood of Steel safe zone.

The Prince's body guards formed a protective defense around him and the Prime Advisor. Super mutants could be heard sallying forth from their defenses to join them in the trench. Newton protected the back of the party, firing at the big green abominations. Ban directed the guards on where to go to get out of the trench as he helped Newton cover the retreat. They slowly moved back, firing into the crowd of super mutants as they bottle – necked in the trench.

Newton had lost count on her ammo, so when her bolt clicked to signify she was out it came as a surprise. She took out the empty clip and tossed it aside. Checking the compartments of power armor, she found no more clips of ten millimeter ammo. Hannah Newton let go of her sub – machine gun and let it dangle by the harness as she took out her pistol and readied it to fire.

"I'm out," she informed Ban and he positioned his body to her.

"I'm running low," he acknowledged as he took down another mutant.

Super mutants were now walking along the edges of the trench firing down. Ban looked behind him to see that Louis Brandian and Charles Everidge were safe. A mutant master with a minigun stood at the edge of the trench. It's minigun was warming up as Ban tried to fire but found the microfusion cell was depleted. Newton turned and fired three rounds into the mutant's armor and angered it.

The super mutant roared in frustration as the Operatives heard a loud crack as the creature's head exploded. Falling slowly into the trench, Ban motioned for Newton to pick up the minigun. She hefted it up letting the power armor do the work as she locked and loaded the weapon. Ban looked up the monument to see the reflection of a scope in the dim light of dusk. Around the trench, near the entrance, two of the heavily armed Knights with miniguns cleared the top of the trench. The Knight in the Washington Monument sniped several super mutants as Newton and Ban used what remaining ammo to turn the mutant counter attack.

Climbing out of the trench with the super mutants in retreat and the Washington Monument guards returning to their points, Michael Ban took off his helmet, "that's it, no more quid pro quo, no tit for tac, no favors, nothing! You tell the Brotherhood of Steel everything now or so help me, by the power of Saint Jude, I will eviscerate you! Prince or no prince, you will not endanger the lives of people!"

Operative Daniel Roe and his ghoul mercenaries were positioned in the crossroads of Church Street and Yew Avenue. In the three dwarfed buildings that were once tall and grand two hundred years ago held one ghoul each. Two would be shooters, one would be the spotter. On the ground was the remainder of the team, three ghouls and Roe, waiting in the wings of Church Street under cover of tin metal sheets and a dumpster. They had created the temporary camp for the planned mission.

Franklin was the spotter for Da'an and Zhao, used the radio to communicate to the temporary camp, "got the two prisoners, six guards, Marshall Lawson and another person, male in their early twenties, on the move to the middle of the crossroads."

"Unidentified male is to not be harmed," ordered Roe into the radio as he turned to the three ghouls with him as they all put on their black face mask, "Rook, Tamara, and Bin chamber rounds and get in position to start the distraction.

The ghouls nodded and headed to the established position as the radio cackled, "they are setting up firing distance... I have movement to the north side of Yea Avenue... it's Talon! I repeat, we have Talon Company moving to intercept!"

_Shit_, thought roe as he grabbed the radio and walked to the position of Rook, Tamara and Bin, "protect the prisoners, Lawson, and the other man at all costs! Do not lose sight of the prisoners!"

Rook looked to Roe, "want me to blow the charges, coach?"

Dan nodded, still not used to the ghoul's use of different titles of authority, and the bulky ghoul ignited the demolition charges tied to a Chryslus Motors Highwayman parked near a small building. It gave a small explosion that was ignored as the Grayditch Guards saw the small unit of Talon Scouts engage them from the north. Turning away from the two prisoners with their hands tied behind their backs and blind folds covering their eyes. Marshall Lawson took out his forty – four caliber revolver and shot it straight into the chest of a Talon Company mercenary. Standing next to him was the exiled Juan Alvarado, whose membership within the Brotherhood of Steel was terminated by the will of Elder Reginald Rothchild.

The Talon Second Scouts fired upon the Grayditch Guards and their Regulator leader. The two prisoners ducked down to avoid getting hit from shrapnel and spare bullets. Two guards were taken down and Galvin Cobb tried to feel around for a knife to undo the bounds behind his back. The second explosion of the car was nuclear, Highwayman parts propelled at high speed from the blast zone and killed two of the Talon Scouts. The small building collapsed, two hundred year old dust was flown into the air. This caused a pause in combat that Dan had anticipated and his team joined the fray.

Tracers whizzed about as three groups fought in open combat at the crossroads of Yew Avenue and Church Street. The Alexandria mercenaries under the command of Daniel Roe fought the Talon Second Scouts along with the Grayditch Guards because they made the largest force at the crossroads. Cobb lost hold of the knife and scrambled for cover along with Operative Lolli Pop. Juan was with Marshall Lawson, a pistol drawn and shooting at Talon Scouts standing shoulder to shoulder with the Grayditch judge.

"Who the fuck are those guys," Alvarado yelled out, his useless arm flopping a little even though it was tied to him at the belt.

"I'll be damned if I know, but anyone that kills Talon are good in my book," announced Marshall Lawson as he flicked open the cylinder to reload his revolver; a Grayditch guard caught two bullets in the chest as the black faced mercenaries pushed forward up the sidewalk, one of their petite members turned her gun on the downed guard and fired two more bullets in the fallen guards head, "fuck!"

"We need to get out of here," recommend Juan Alvarado as he holstered his gun and burnt his out thigh through his a pants because of the hot muzzle.

Marshall Lawson looked out to see the last three Grayditch Guards squirm on the ground holding stomach or leg wounds; the large black faced mercenary took three shots in the chest causing him to stagger but continued fighting, "I think you're right, Mister Alvarado," the two men disappeared into the ruins south of Yew Avenue and left the bound prisoners to their fate at the fight in the crossroads.

The ghouls were able to push forward in combat against the Talon Second Scouts because of reinforced combat armor and the majority of their nerve endings had no feeling as they were necrotic. The covering fire from the snipers Da'an and Zhao had whittled the Second Scouts from twelve to six. The attempt to flank the position was halted by impassable debris. Franklin was the eye in the sky, calling out shifts in position and targets for the ground team and snipers to take out. A Talon merc through a grenade and the petite Tamara picked it up and through it back still live.

It exploded mid – air as a Talon Scout fell on his knees clawing his face, "Arrgh! I can't see! My eyes, my eyes, I can't see!"

His colleague tried to pull him back behind cover but Da'an cut his life short. No other mercenary approached the wounded man and Zhao put him down with a shot through his chest. Rook held his back to a car near the Talon mercs as he was squatted low, he put away his rifle and took out a verticle twin barrel shotgun. Bin pulled up next to the fellow ghoul and took the pin from two grenades and cooked them off before sending them directly to the Talon Scouts.

The explosion killed two mercenaries, one directly and the other from the concussive blast. Rook shot a Talon mercenary in the neck with his shotgun as the last Second Scout tossed his gun to the ground. He stood up with his hands held high into the air. No helmet was on his head, just a worn Talon Company combat armor, Roe inwardly smiled when he saw the man looked similar to Lolli Pop.

"Don't shoot! I surrender," he said, the ghouls all pointing their guns at him.

Roe looked him up and down, kicking him in the ass from behind, "move," he ordered.

"What," asked the Talon mercenary as Roe pushed him to where the two prisoners were.

"Strip," ordered Roe as he cocked his gun back, "or die right here."

Franklin, Da'an and Zhao had emerged from their perches and met up with the rest of the team. Tamara used her knife to cut the bounds behind the man Roe identified as Lolli Pop and took the blind fold from the man identified as Galvin Cobb. Pop rubbed his wrists and began to strip out of his clothes and put on the Talon merc's clothing. The mercenary began to put on Operative Pop's clothing when instructed to by the ghouls.

Roe looked to Rook and tapped his head as the Talon merc was lacing up the worn boots. The large ghoul told the man to get on his knees, the mercenary complied, thinking he was going to get knocked out. Instead, the large ghoul named Rook fired on round from his shotgun into the Talon merc's head. The shot expanded out from impact leaving only the lower jaw and partial part of his cheek. The mercenary twitched for a moment and then flopped to the side. Tamara began to bound the wrists the way that Lolli Pop had been confined. Bin was sedating the three injured Graydtich Guards and helping to clean and dress their wounds.

Roe picked up a laser rifle from a Talon Company corpse along with ammo. Shouldering the rifle and pocketing the ammo, Roe his made his way back to Cobb who was sitting up, his hands still behind his back. Dan knelt down and looked the man in his eyes. Pop adjusted the armor he now wore as his own, it was a bit too large for his frame.

"Consider this your prison break," announced Roe as he tilted his head.

"Come to collect the bounty," snarled Galvin Cobb as he spat on the dirt and tried to get to his knees but Roe stopped him, "at least show your face to me, coward!"

Dan smiled as he looked up to see Pop in the Talon armor, "we're not here for the caps on your head. We're getting paid a lot more to save your life and hand it over to this man. This is your second chance, do you want a second chance?"

"Fuck you, and fuck whoever employs you," said Cobb, "who the fuck put you up to this?"

"No one you care to know," Dan wet his lips and turned to his fellow Operative, "however, it took this organization months to plant Mister Pop in the Brotherhood of Steel...he is too valuable an agent to let him die in the crossroads of an old world ruin."

Lolli Pop nodded as Dan handed him the laser rifle and a small sack filled with food, water, and important files, "get up and lead this man to Fort Bannister. This group, Alexandria, wants an eye, ear and hand in Talon's operations."

"This won't ever work, wearing a corporal's armor doesn't make you part of Talon," growled out Cobb in hate as he twisted against his bonds.

"You are my golden ticket," said Lolli Pop with a smile, "how would you like to regain command again, regain that honor you lost? I can make that happen, as your second in command. I have something of vital importance that will help Talon Company, it will be an opening parlay between two organizations for mutual benefit. And you shall reap the rewards, Commander Cobb."

Former Commander Galvin Cobb said nothing but did feel in the pit of his stomach his greatest goal in his new found second life: to regain his dignity from the slanderous Jabsco. Lolli Pop pushed Cobb from the back to force him to walk forward. The ghouls gathered around Roe as Cobb led the Brotherhood of Steel Operative to the west where Fort Bannister was located. Roe turned to the ghouls on his team.

"Bin, are those guards left alive treated for," he asked and the ghoul known as Bin nodded, "good job team. Collect the weapons, armor, and ammo. I want to be out of here in thirty minutes and we need to sell this crap to make caps. Don't forget the boots!"

Operative Anna LaCroix sat down in the room that housed the terminals at the Alexandria. John Harkness and Scribe Actaeon were already there, working on writing files and reports. She logged into her terminal name and began to type up the information gained from Joost Van Dyke's computer. A fair amount was generalized because she did not had an eidetic memory like Harkness. The android observed as she worked, her body language was more calm then when she left. The first mission out of the Alexandria had calmed her because it took out the anxiety of performance.

Harkness was getting anxious himself from being inside and typing so much. Fake light did not make up for the real outdoors. The meld of Harkness with A3 – 21's memories made him more of a roamer, staying in one place for too long was dull, stagnate, and unchanging. As a part of BIOS he now had to adhere to the hierarchy, even the unfair treatment from Galeas. Actaeon was allowed to spend time at the Arlington Archive, a luxury Harkness could not have.

He was too valuable as a source of information and for breaking down data as it came in from the field. In the pit of his synthetic stomach, John Harkness felt a pull, a pull to wander by his boots. In reflection of his time spent at Rivet City, since he regained his old memories as an android, the need to move around increased as well. He turned to LaCroix and appraised her body to see if there was any damage.

"Going to stare all day or take a picture," commented Anna as she flicked her hair over her shoulder so as she went back to typing.

"How was the operation," asked Harkness as he turned in his chair.

"You'll read about it after I type it out," she said as she hesitantly typed into the terminal.

"At the rate you type, I'll find out in three months, was the intelligence solid," he asked typing while talking.

"The mission was fine, one glitch," commented Anna as she pounded the keys in frustration, "my memory is not recalling everything from Van Dyke's files."

"He will put new obstacles and possibly move the files from his Graydtich home," mused Harkness as Actaeon got up and collected his items, "and where do you think you're going, Scribe?"

Actaeon had a disgusted look on his face, his hatred for Harkness had not dissipated, "I'll be at Arlington Archive if you must know."

"Do you and the book worms need help," Harkness perked up at the idea of leaving the hotel turned headquarters for BIOS.

"We have our hands full with Degory Bartlett," answered Actaeon as he shuffled papers.

The man was not familiar to Harkness. He had read the reports from Operatives Newton and Ban, the information seemed to fit, no mater how forced it was, with his knowledge on Commonwealth history. Actaeon had become taciturn as of recently, this had been the first mention of the Ambassador from the Plymouth Aristocracy since the man entered the Arlington Archive two weeks ago. The Scribe had been working for Janice Yearling to get a fairly decent understanding of Twentieth and Twenty – First Centuries. This would help to avoid bad forms of governance and the possible future of the Capital Wasteland.

Actaeon and Tearling were not friends, the connection between them was that of employer and and employee. She passed on files and workloads to him, and the beguiled Scribe kept quiet and did his work. Actaeon's attitude had become introverted, his thoughts had always been his own but since the argument at the Sewer Way Station he had kept his actions to himself as well. However, the work for BIOS gave him an intangible idea of dignity to cling in his grasp. The contempt shown to him by other members of the Brotherhood of Steel was also solidified by his work for BIOS. Returning to the Citadel as permanent station seemed like less of an option now more than ever, he would be stuck amongst rotting books, falling ceramic tiles, and dust. Strangely, he seemed okay with this as he began a transition in his life.

A young Scribe, a member of the Order of the Quill, stormed into the room and sat down with a huff. Actaeon looked up, briefly, but returned to the paper work in front of him. She cleared her through, trying to regain his attention but he did not capitulate. Sighing, she than began to vent on the topic area that was bothering her to the point that she needed to leave her post.

"Why do we allow an outsider like that monochrome prick in the middle of our research station," the Scribe was referring to Degory Bartlett.

Actaeon remained silent but his writing slowed, the Scribe continued, "he tosses all texts that are important away. Bartlett is a menace, hindering us from progress. Half of my work he has selected for his own personal selection of readings and won't even let me transcribe them when he doesn't have his grubby meat hooks into them!"

Scribe Actaeon looked up to the young Scribe, no words were on his lips, just a look of contempt and disdain.

"Honestly, who does he think he is," asked the young Scribe in an overly dramatic tone, "he acts like he owns the archive. He doesn't even explain any of what he finds, just retreats into a small corner of the room reading by these uh...fire things...smell horrible. Says the lighting in the building is far to bright and artificial for him. The backwards bastard should be happy he isn't stumbling around in the dark!. Bartlett is so... so... infuriating!"

"You seem to have confused me with someone that gives a crap," stated Actaeon as he resumed his attention to the book in front of him.

The young Scribe was agape in shock at his words and was about to reply when a Senior Scribe entered the room, "there has been an incident in the main reading room."

Actaeon left his book open with a marker and followed the Senior Scribe, with the young one trailing behind, to the main reading room to see a smoldering book. Two Scribes looked to be in the process of rescuing the book as head of the Plymouth Aristocracy's delegation was cornered by two Knights with their weapons leveled. Degory Bartlett had deemed the book unworthy of study and now the Scribes were in a race against time to unlock it's secrets before the two hundred year old pages withered away. Scribe Janice Yearling was in a rage. There were two things she had thrown her life into, one was the creation of BIOS and the second was cataloging pre – War books for the use of other generations.

"Out! Get out NOW!" Yelled Yearling as she looked to the knights, "get him out of my sight! Escort Doctor Bartlett back to his nation's encampment."

The two knights pushed the doctor away as he blathered about how the Brotherhood of Steel treated guests. Scribe Yearling ordered the men and women to disperse back to their work. As the Knights forcibly removed the representative of the Plymouth Aristocracy, Yearling made her way to Actaeon. She ordered him to follow her into the study.

"A two hundred year old text on a sport called... foot ball," she lamented as she sat behind an old desk that belonged to a librarian two hundred years before her, "they won't be able to recover it all, because that so – called academic lacked any and all common sense. Using candles near fucking old paper."

"He should have known better," replied Actaeon as he continued to stand, adjusting his robe so it wasn't twisted around his leg.

"What he said is correct though," Yearling looked up and traced her middle finger over her left eyebrow, "we haven't treated them well in the sense of allowing them freedom to roam. Newton and Ban are work as a part of containing these nations. We need someone to work outside of containment."

Actaeon raised an eyebrow, _am I to be your willing subordinate_, "what are you plans."

_My plans are my own,_ Janice thought as she leaned in close to give her words more dramatic meanings, "I need you to...act outside of overt Brotherhood interests. Let's see how receptive Doctor Bartlett maybe to a friendly ear, it may lead to something greater. He has stirred the ire of the Scribes for sometime, the Knights are getting sick and tired of babysitting those northerners. The intelligence from Harkness points to their already being Commonwealth agents in the Capital, we need to flush them out and silently."

_Sounds like you've been planning this for a longer time then just a going off on a whim_, "the Operatives handling the Commonwealth have filed a few reports that the members of the Plymouth Aristocracy are slow to trust. Gaining their trust will be difficult, let alone finding out about their informants. How shall I proceed?"

"You're going to reach out passively to Bartlett, let him befriend you. I am going to permanently bar him from all paper records at Arlington Archive and file a formal complaint against the Plymouth Aristocracy forcing him to go in only one direction. Let's see how he reacts," Yearling took out a piece of paper and began to write up a formal complaint, consider this your first test, don't fail Scribe Actaeon."

"Forging a fake relationship with an unfriendly academic," acknowledged Actaeon as he thought of appealing to the doctor's ego and intellect, "should be a walk in the semi – irradiated park."

It took little time for the Grayditch guards to be mobilized to secure the crossroads of Church Street and Yew Avenue after word of the battle and their fallen colleagues reached their ears. Juan Alvarado, technically exiled from the limits of Grayditch, helped Marshall Lawson navigate the sewer tunnels to get to the main grounds of the city. Lawson, as a judge and lawman, forbade Alvarado entrance into the city so as to protect his life and uphold the court's recent ruling. However, Lawson did not ask him to leave, he saw the assistance the Operative brought as beneficial.

The Grayditch Guards were not at ease with Alvarado's presence. Lawson told them to stuff their complaints where the sun didn't shine and to hurry up to get back to the crossroads. The thought that some guards could still be alive complied the men to move quickly. Sloshing through the tunnels, Lawson and Alvarado led the way for the ten guards. They emerged in the crossroads to see the smoke, fire, and crumbled building. Bodies were strewn everywhere, Talon Company's corpses had their combat armor removed and there were no weapons or ammo left on the field of combat. The Grayditch Guards that had died had had their bodies moved to form a line, hands of their chests and their eyes closed. There were three men on the ground with dressed wounds near their comrades' bodies.

Lawson and Alvarado noticed that there were no bodies left by the third group, they had escaped the battle without loss or taken their comrades bodies with them. The two men had seen at least one of those faceless mercenaries take three or more rounds into the chest and didn't even flinch. Guards checked the bodies of their comrades and the three members that were medically treated. Marshall Lawson made his way over to where the prisoners were last seen. Smoking a cigar, he cast his eyes on the bound body of what was once a pudgy man without a head. Alvarado was not pleased to discover his friends fate, _the plan must have gone wrong, this wasn't supposed to happen_, he thought.

"Why, why would they do this," he asked as he knelt down next to his colleague's body, undoing the bounds that kept his arms behind his back.

"I've found Cobb's blindfold," announced a guard as he offered the cloth to Lawson.

"This was their goal," commented Marshall as he knelt down next to Alvarado, "I'm sorry for you friend...his death was to mean something and not let that murdering son of a bitch go free."

Juan whipped his nose against the wrist of his good arm, "no, this doesn't add up, something isn't right," Alvarado looked onto the body.

"What are you saying, tin head," asked the Grayditch Guard as Alvarado turned to Marshall Lawson.

"How many Talon did you count," asked Juan as he walked over to the bodies of Talon the guards were piling up, "Lawson, how many did you see?"

"About ten, if I remember correctly," Lawson stroked his beard.

"I counted twelve before we hightailed it," said Alvarado as he began to count off the bodies, "there are eleven Talon bodies here."

"Let's assume you are correct and twelve Talon came to this fight, what about the other mercenaries?" Marshall examined the bodies and cut off the index fingers from the Talons with his cigar cutter.

"Scavengers, raiders, mercs that saw an easy score; take your pick. They took weapons, ammo, and the expensive armor," pointed out Juan, "did you see that one take five to the chest and keep walking?"

"I saw him only take three, he must have been high on something like psycho," replied Marshall Lawson with concern as his guards were listening intently.

"Three shots and they didn't die," breathed a Grayditch Guard in awe.

"Immortals, fuck," whispered another guard in fear.

"Not another word," ordered Lawson as he clenched his cigar in his teeth, pulling the guard that called the other mercenary team immortals, "I will not allow rumors to be spread about those murdering fucks high on jet and gods' know – what! Do you hear me?"

The guards nodded and Juan moved to Marshall Lawson, "the main thought I have is that Talon Company sent a team to recover Cobb, if they were just a death squad then they'd have just taken out Cobb. He's still out there, and Pop is dead."

Lawson whispered into Alvarado's ear, "he would have died anyway, you know."

Juan hissed back, "THAT would have made sense, it would have fulfilled a goal. But this, this was murder in cold blood because he was here...that's all. No reason, senseless!"

"Consider his sentence served, we'll bring all the bodies back after we take the wounded to the medical center," Lawson directed the last part to his guards.

"I want the Grayditch Guards to pursue this Talon Company fuck!" Demanded Juan Alvarado with a fire in his eyes and vengeance in his blood, _they killed the closest thing he had to a friend since giving up his life for the Brotherhood of Steel. _

"You are in no position to demand anything, tin head," scorned a guard in a snarl.

"The Brotherhood gave me my walking papers, shit head," replied Juan as he pointed at the guard with his hand shaking, "I will fucking tear out your throat and spit down your neck! Or are you too brahmin shit to fight a crippled man?"

"Start taking the wounded home, now," said Marshall Lawson as he stood between the guards and Alvarado; he turned to Juan, "I am not sending any of my men after a possible Talon mercenary or Galvin Cobb. This is way out of Grayditch jurisdiction, the council and the court will be unable to do anything."

"Fuck the court and council," said Alvarado as he took out his gun and held it, "this is all the justification I need!"

"Put that gun away this instant, kid," ordered Lawson his hand on the grip of his forty – four revolver as it was holstered, "you want your wasteland justice...your Brotherhood minders would not be able to square that in their code of honor."

Juan Alvarado pointed his gun to the pile of Talon corpses and fired five rounds in frustrations before dropping to his knees, "fuck their codes! Fucking Brotherhood, fucking Talon, fucking... ARM!"

Marshall kept an eye on the young man's pistol, "the Brotherhood of steel support their own, that is one thing this old Regulator knows."

"At least Regulators care about locals," replied Alvarado as he holstered his weapon, "those armored assholes mustered me out. Bael presented it himself, removed from service due to injury and my record. No spot for a man with a useless arm in a shining set of power armor. Fuck them, if I wasn't local they'd have kept me at the Citadel, but I'm not from west coast stock, therefore they throw me out into the wasteland with all my past connections gone. Fuck the Brotherhood."

"That's the smartest thing I've heard you say, kid," Marshall Lawson smiled as he looked back to his guards entering the tunnels, "that was the main fault we saw in the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Lolli Pop was local born too, and look at how the Brotherhood treated us, sacrificial brahmin," replied the Operative as he stood up.

"You saved my life here today, I would have stayed and died with these men, but you convinced me to live and fight for another day. That is one of the first tenants of being a Regulator," the unspoken words from Marshall Lawson were 'I owe you;' he pulled a piece of paper from a pocket in his coat and began to scribble on it, "Regulators don't discriminate against locals, even those with bum arms, just remember that it's far more dangerous work than that of the Brotherhood. If the fates allow it, make your way to Canterbury Commons and then head west for a day until you reach a small farmstead. Hand this not to the closest person in a duster."

Alvarado took the paper with a shaking hand, no words could express his thanks; Lawson held his hand and looked into his eyes, "don't disappoint me, kid, I know you have it in you to find Cobb. Follow this path and you'll have a bright future under Sonora Cruz."

"Yes, sir," said Juan Alvarado as he breathed an internal sigh of relief, _Bael seems to have read Lawson right...this plan could actually work...holy fuck_.

Scribe Mendel was watching Elder Lyons in sick bay as he talked with Paladin Bruce. Elder Lyons was happy to know that one of his oldest and most trained Paladins was alive. The wounds to his legs had been so server that they needed to be amputated. Malnutrition had slowed the healing process, and Bruce was currently hooked up to intravenous fluids and vitamins. Bruce was held to the hospital gurney with a strap across his chest to prevent him from rolling off.

"You'll pull through, I have no doubt," said the Paladin with a smile to his chapter's Elder.

"I do not worry about myself," lied the Elder as he smiled, "I wish you'd take the prosthetic legs we still have available."

"I am far too old and out of commission to justify getting such equipment," Bruce pushed himself up on the gurney a little, "this war dog has seen his last drag out battle."

"Perhaps something can be done and we can get you working," offered Lyons as he motioned for Mendel, "you're years of experience can still be helpful to this chapter."

"My body is what the Brotherhood wishes to do with it," Bruce pledged.

"Get some rest, Paladin, you deserve it," ordered Elder Lyons as he motioned for Mendel to push him away.

Paladin Bruce closed his eyes after he laid back. Scribe Georgina Mendel pushed Elder Owyn Lyons in his vault – tec wheelchair out of the medical bay. His arrival was welcomed by all the personnel of the Citadel to greet his vertibird. Knights, Scribes, and Paladins all stopped to swarm around their returned leader. The leader of the Brotherhood of Steel smiled and waived, refusing to give a word or speech. Now people just stopped what they were doing to look at the Elder as he was wheeled by, much to his chagrin.

Behind closed doors, Owyn Lyons just wanted his men and women to return to work; too much time had been wasted on his condition. He shied from the public eyes, making only time to go between the medical center and his private quarters. Reginald Rothchild had been nervous with the Elder's return, but Lyons made it clear in no short terms that he was not going to revoke the self applied title. The one condition was to keep open communication between the two of them, which would not be difficult in theory. Rothchild had prepared memorandums and briefs for the Elder. Owyn was still catching up.

Flipping through a file as Mendel wheeled him into his private quarters, "how have we gained so many initiates in the past weeks?"

Rothchild stood up from a couch, "can you get us a drink, Scribe Mendel," asked the aged Scribe as he sat down with his old friend stopped near him, "how is the chair handling?"

"I wish I was back on my own two feet," replied the Elder as he took the drink from Mendel, whom sat in another chair across from the men, she was Lyons' acting assistant and care giver until he found someone better, "which is more than what Billy Bruce can say."

"Yes, good Paladin," agreed Rothchild as he sipped his whiskey, "what were wondering about before with recruitment?"

"We have had a large jump in initiates from six combat training to thirty – five, and we now had around seventy – three children between the ages of two and fourteen," replied Lyons as he looked at the file, "even if the men and women were reproducing at great rates we still wouldn't have these numbers."

"Well, I ran a small...mission," commented Elder Rothchild, "remember how James' son tried to retrive the G.E.C.K. for Project Purity? Well, before he vanished, James' son reported about Vault Eighty – Seven and the small child run cave town of Little Lamplight."

"Did you harm any children, Reginald?" Lyons was concerned as he hadn't read all the mission notes yet.

"Not in the least, Owyn," exclaimed Rothchild, "I'm slightly upset that you would think that of me. I offered them food, a better life, and a system of life in the day light; similar to what we did with those children from the Pitt. It was too much of a good offer that even the so – called boy king in charge of the place couldn't keep the kids from signing on board."

"So we destroyed a small town to gain access to Vault Eighty – Seven," Lyons had his face screwed up in a look of consternation, "this is unacceptable, old friend."

"It was hardly a town, Owyn," reasoned Reginald, "it was a bunch of lost boys and girls attempting to rule on their own with many mutts spreading diseases. They had no educated medical personnel, no teachers, no plan for a future. All they had were the remains of Vault Eighty – Seven and this cave fungus that absorbs radiation. Admittedly, some haven't taken to the transfer of power well, and decided to seek their fortunes elsewhere in the Wasteland."

"Transfer of power? Is that what we're calling the usurpation of a town that had been around for over two hundred years?" Elder Lyons was livid, his face red as spittle drew on his lips.

Georgina Mendel went behind the Elder and massaged his neck, "Elder, you need to calm down, slow deep breathes," cooed the Scribe as she massaged deeper.

Owyn counted down to ten as he exhaled, "thank you Scribe Mendel. Reginald, you need to know that I regret this decision you made. However, regrets are for the past. We need to more forward onto Vault Eighty – Seven."

"The Redeemers are securing the area still, while five Scribes look into the systems," answered Rothchild, "the nuclear reactor is leaking, the upper levels are irradiated, and the top side entrance is inaccessible."

"The Redeemers? Is that the name that Cross has decided upon for her squad?" Asked Lyons with a perplexed look.

"Cross' Redeemers was partly chosen and partly thrust upon them as a title," Rothchild held his hand out and wobbled it on a horizontal axis, "the people of Point Lookout and Drayden gave them the title after they were able to rescue a small town by the name of Saint Mar from swampfolk and ghouls. We've also established an outpost in an old detention facility that was still operational at Point Lookout."

"Reginald, you are spreading our forces very thin," commented Lyons in grief, "how much is a small force?"

"Three permanent Knights under a Knight Captain with two assisting Scribes," answered Rothchild with a quizzical look, "hardly even something that can be considered a skeleton crew."

"I want situation reports for all regions to be prepared by the Sentinels," Lyons switched topis as he closed the files, _these issues are all but rested_.

"They have been filed by the Sentinels and submitted for your information a day ago," corrected Rothchild as he sipped and looked back to his friend, "did you read up on BIOS yet?"

"I've read the Tribunal notes," Elder Lyons brushed his eyebrows and his growing hair, "perhaps you can tell me something in more detail that wasn't written."

"I have suspicions that Scribe Yearling and Star Paladin Bael are operating outside of the Chain that Binds," replied Elder Rothchild.

"The Chain that Binds is what we have been lax in implementing since I've gained Elder status and refused to appoint a Head Paladin to replace my old position," Lyons sipped his drink slowly, "mainly because I did not want to have a middleman between my orders."

"I don't mean to judge your decisions, dear friend, but perhaps it is time to appoint one to oversee BIOS more closely as Yearling and Bael shift their weight greatly," suggested Rothchild.

"Reginald, I am in no way looking to appoint a Head Paladin, we have three Sentinels and one Star Paladin," Owyn sipped his drink, "I am done with this topic for now."

"Something must be down to curb BIOS' actions," pressed Rothchild, "we can not afford to have a branch acting independently of the body of this chapter."

"I have made plans to recall Bael to the Citadel on a more permanent basis, he will find his true position here," assured Lyons, "do you feel Operative Roe acted under instruction from Bael?"

_I know it_, thought Reginald Rothchild, _but proving it is another issue, _"there is no evidence to suggest that, Elder Lyons."

The Operatives working out of Megaton and Springvale, Colin Moriarty Junior and Zachary Zimm, had established themselves very well. Their main base of operation was currently Silver's Den, the local burlesque, bordello and vaudeville entertainment. The Megaton Guards, retired raiders now paid to protect settlements, had left Silver's Den after the madame put six bullets into a guard. She had ended the two year practice of the guards hurting and rapping her whores, but also lost the only protection available to her as well. J.R. and Zimm had setup security for the girls for the payment of information collected by the tricks that came their way.

J.R. would handle the meeting with his father and Zimm would run point on Ashkelon. An uneasy peace had been reached. Springvale was a neutral town, guards loyal to Moriarty and those loyal to Ashkelon would not fight because no one wanted an outright war between brothers. The only people left on the short end of the stalemate between Ashkelon and Moriarty were the ghouls.

Some of Silver's girls were ghouls, specific to clients' requests. Other than that, the operatives did not have any orders to deal with the ghoul question. They had both written many requests to the issue but Bael and Yearling had yet to respond either way. J.R. and Zimm had not extend a helping hand to the brahmin ranchers that were ghouls. At that moment, the Operatives were just strengthening the brothel as a field house while collecting information.

Silver's Den was popular for everyone in the Capital Wasteland; vault dwellers, Tenpenny residents and raider alike. The wealth of information gained was amazing, nothing loosened lips like that of a whores' work. When a member of the vault entered the brothel, no one took notice. When he approached J.R. directly instead of the whores or booze. This vault dweller was familiar to J.R., a cousin of Susie's he was was once introduced to, but otherwise didn't know.

"J.R.?" He asked with a questioning tone, the kid couldn't be more than sixteen and freshly taken the G.O.A.T., "I... I heard you were out here..."

"I'm sorry, kid, your face is familiar but your name escapes me," J.R. sat at a table with a notebook, he closed it and looked the teen in the face.

"I'm Patrick, Patrick Keyes, Susie's cousin," said the teen, his hair was blonde in a familial resemblance to the maternal line, "I...uh, need a favor."

"I'm not in the business of granting favors," answered J.R. as he tapped the notebook with his index finger.

"I … I know it's, uhm, unusual for me to ask a favor and all, but...Susie speaks so highly of you," Patrick was stammering considering him and this man were practically strangers.

"Cut through all the brahmin shit, kid," J.R. directed in the best blunt terms he knew, "you don't have to butter me up for anything, just ask and I'll give you a realistic answer."

Patrick Keyes gulped audibly, "well I... I want to join the Brotherhood of Steel."

J,R, was expecting the kid to ask for money, sex advice, maybe even chems because he was too afraid to talk about it with his family; Colin was certainly put off his feet and needed to ask the question again, "you want to join the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Yeh... yeh... yes," said the teen as he tried to look serious, "I... I want to serve my... community."

"Then be a fry cook in the kitchens," Colin Moriarty Junior shook his head, "you don't sign up and enlist to the Brotherhood of Steel to serve your local area. The Brotherhood protects the cities, towns, and settlements of the Capital Wasteland from all threats foreign and domestic. How we operate is different then any group you've seen out here. Not tell me, what are your real reasons for joining?"

The kid, halfway between adulthood and childhood, held his tongue for a few moment, J.R. could not tell if it was from fear, contemplation, or something else, "I...I need to leave Vault Hundred and One."

"There are many things you can do, kid," J.R. tried to reason, "join up with a traveling merchant, work odd jobs in cities and towns. The Brotherhood of Steel is a lifelong commitment."

"That's what I'm afraid of," commented the teen.

"What was that now," the son of the crime lord of Megaton leaned in closer.

"You wouldn't understand," answered Patrick Keyes.

_Fucking kids_, thought J.R. as he leaned back and took out his smokes, he preferred the ancient tobacco than to the new Drayden smokes, "I'm here to talk consider it a courtesy; anything more and I'll need to seriously think about it."

The teen nodded and walked out of the whore house. His eyes lingered at the topless and half dressed women. The vault teen bumped shoulders with another man. With a grunt, the man in a dirty white shirt and green or gray pants. He walked to the second floor after pushing the kid away and grunted. Leo Stahl had shaky steps and clung to the railing with a tight grip. He walked to the appropriate room number and knocked twice.

The door opened to a large breasted woman with wide hips answered the door completely naked smelling of sweat, body odor, and sex. Leo didn't even blink an eye at her nude body, she moved to the side and let him in. Zachary Zimm was on the bed, the sheets of fabric used as a blanket were pulled around his waist.

"Holy fuck, man, get your own whore! Why the fuck did you let him in," the Operative yelled and began to back pedals, "sorry hun, I shouldn't call you a whore."

"That is what I am," she said with a shrug as she sat down on the bed.

Stahl removed a kit from her draw and handed her a does of psycho and mentats. She wrapped it around his thigh and popped two mentats in her mouth. The whore depressed the syringe to inject the chemical stimulants directly into his blood stream. She kissed him as he moaned in pleasure of the chems, placing a mentat in his mouth and swallowing her own.

"I seriously don't need to see that," said Zachary as he began to get dressed.

The whore laid back on the best and tried to play with Zimm's skin, "mister big bad mercenary never rolled on mentats or stims before," her voice smooth like velvet.

"I make it a point not to do chems," stated Zimm as he took a shot of whiskey, his wound healing quickly.

"Sure hit the booze hard enough," the whore smirked with a knowing look.

"Helps with the pain," said Zimm as he straightened his bandage on the wounded cheek.

"Hey, it is you," commented Leo Stahl already in a drugged haze, "Moriarty's friend..."

"I am no friend of Moriarty," said Zimm as he took another shot.

"No, not that Moriarty," Leo's words were breathy and soft, "his gun for hire son."

"Your high," said Zimm as he fastened his combat armor, "and this is still my rented room."

The whore put on some light clothing and left, "yes, I heard you get things don, you know, like done done," Stahl was stoned and incoherent to the Operative.

"Fuck off," replied Zimm as he loaded up his gun, "I only work for paying customers."

"I can pay, man," pleaded Leo as he scrambled forward with the psycho syringe still strapped to his leg, "or I will be able to after the job is done."

"Fuck off Leo, or I'll tell your sister," reprimanded Zimm as he pushed the high man away, "thought you were clean."

"I'll go clean, no worries, just needed this thing to take care of, you know," Stahl was falling forward and backward as he couldn't keep balance.

_Fuck me_, thought Zimm, "talk to me in the morning when your not high."

"Holly fuck, I'm trying to give you the biggest score this place has ever seen!" Leo held his arms up and out far apart as a symbol of how big the pay off would be, "we can make thousands, tens of thousands of caps!"

"Oh, this is rich coming from a junkie," Zimm began to push him away and out the room, "get the fuck out, Leo."

"It's called UltraJet," yelled Leo as Zimm closed the door, "we just need the recipe and we can cook it!"

"Leave me the fuck alone, Leo," demanded Zimm, _fucking junkie pusher_.

"UltraJet, the chem of the future," yelled Leo Stahl through the door, "we'll be kings of the Wasteland!"

"Fuck off, Leo," replied Zimm for the umpteenth time as he laid on the bed in the small room and poured a shot of whiskey; Leo Stahl raved and ranted at the closed door, he would leave in thirty minutes, but the idea of UltraJet was already planted in Zachary's mind and began to sprout roots.

Knight Michael Ban and Operative Hannah Newton walked into the Kingdom of Brandia's encampment. The lords, ladies, knights and support staff applauded the returning party from the Mall. The Prince of Brandia, Louis Brandian, was hoisted high up on the shoulders of his remaining body guards. Charles Everidge walked with the Operatives who stopped at a temporary stable for the genetically modified zebras from the Commonwealth. The braying of the animals fell upon the Operatives ears better than the applause of those that showered the Prince with adoration and the minstrels plucking tunes on their stringed instruments.

Ban took off his helmet and relaxed against the wall of the stable, "Enclave," was all he said, hatred thick in his voice.

"They're not here presently," reminded Everidge as he touched a finger to his nose, "out ships are playing cat and mouse with them. They can not enter the Potomac though."

"The fucking Enclave have been our biggest enemy on two coasts," said Ban with a stern look, "only two years of peace have gone by and now they're back."

"Citadel Control, received our message, and forwarded it to Point Lookout and the Elders," Hannah had removed her helmet, "but we do need to make it back to the Citadel."

"To leave the festivities would not be perceived well, Sir Ban and Lady Newton," informed the Lord of Brighton, "enjoy some Vineyard wine, some Providence grain, and some Brandian bore."

"We savor our meals with friends and family," replied Ban as his stern look did not falter, "pardon our hesitation, Prime Advisor."

"No offense taken, I will inform the Prince, travel well," Charles Everidge shook their hands, "and thank you for today."

Newton and Ban picked up and moved on to the Citadel. Sentinel Lyons saw them and told them the meeting had been pushed back until tomorrow so that all those in attendance could arrive and to rest up. The collapsed in bunks used by many Knights and Paladins stationed at the Citadel. Newton and Ban had not even removed their power armor and the extra weight collapsed the springs and plintered the legs. Sleep came fast, though most others looked at them with hatred. New bed frames were hard to come by in the Wasteland.

In the morning, cold water poured on them woke the Operatives up from their slumber. Sputtering, the two saw Paladin Gunny. He ordered them to get up and washed, a situational meeting was to get underway shortly as Sentinel Tristan had just arrived. Groggily, Newton and Ban got ready and approached the meeting room. They sat down with Bael and Yearling. The Proctors for the Orders of the Quill, Sword, and Shield sat across from them. The three Sentinels also joined them, along with Paladin Bruce and several Scribes taking notes. The two Elders, Lyons and Rothchild, walked into the room and everyone stood, except for Bruce.

"Hail Elders Lyons and Rothchild," intoned every member as they greeted the Elders.

"Sit down everyone," said Lyons as he bowed greetings and sat down with Rothchild at the shared head of the table, "we've received intelligence that the Enclave had returned, en mass. This information comes by way of the Commonwealth. The validity of it has yet to be tested, though any scanning from Point Lookout will be transmitted at the end of today."

"Preparations should be made for an oncoming battle," Sentinel Tristan warned.

"Jumping into full alert without knowledge of the enemy is foolhardy," Scribe Elizabeth Jameson said as she leaned forward.

"Perhaps it is best to mobilize while doing some fact finding," offered Sentinel Lyons as a mediator.

"We have already made moves to verify the information at the Point Lookout outpost, now that we know what to look for it will not be that difficult," answered Elder Owyn Lyons slowly, "however, this will mean changes, specifically pulling one Sentinel team from the field for quick vertibird insertion."

"I volunteer the Lyons' Pride," offered Sarah.

"Thank you, Sentinel Lyons, we will take it under strict consideration," answered Rothchild, "however, we must not forget one of our biggest advantages, Liberty Prime."

"The land – walker is still in disrepair," stated Janice Yearling as a matter of fact.

"The weapons system is only functioning at sixty percent efficiency," added Scribe Peabody, the Proctor of the Order of the Sword.

"The arms and torso are fully integrated, armed and coated to protect against electronic magnetic pulses, laser, nuclear, plasma, and small arms fire," answered Scribe Bowditch, Proctor of the Order of the Shield, "though the legs have still yet to be constructed."

"The optics are completely refurbished," nodded Elder Rothchild, "however, the new programming has not been completely debugged. Though all weapons are calibrated for accuracy."

"So that still leave the Brotherhood with a half functioning robot," affirmed Sentinel Tristan as he flashed back to the day Liberty Prime was lost.

"It might sound too early, but perhaps we need to extend a motion of reconciliation to the Outcasts," said Scribe Jameson, "they may have found some technology that can be put to great use."

Not even a nanosecond passed before Sentinels Lyons and Tristan were on their feet along with Star Paladin Bael to berate the idea of reconciliation. Elder Owyn Lyons and Elder Reginald Rothchild sat back and listened to the debate rage. Some of the secondary Scribes were writing the notes down furiously as Peabody and Bowditch got into the fray. Rothchild decided to intervene when someone had yelled out that the Outcasts were traitors.

"We are in no way about to go forward with reconciliation at this point," replied Rothchild firmly, "we will open this for discussion later, but table it for now."

"Then the reporting from Point Lookout is imperative," affirmed Janice Yearling, "perhaps the use of naval reconnaissance would be better suited."

"Are we certain that the threat is naval," asked Jameson as she tapped her open hand on the table.

"The intelligence collected is defined as a naval battleship that is size classed as Atlantis," Hannah Newton reported as she pulled a piece of paper from a prepared brief that was created by Scribes after their information was forwarded, "Atlantis class battleships are the largest navy vessels in the known world, three were in play by Twenty – Seventy – Seven. It would make sense that the Enclave had access to these floating cities."

"How did we not see this on the west coast," asked Scribe Peabody in caution.

"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Ban as he looked at the Scribe, "perhaps they didn't feel it necessary to use on the west coast because of Navarro and the Oil Rig?"

"We should learn from both President Eden and Richardson not to underestimate the plans of the Enclave," Elder Lyons held his fingers together, "when the Enclave first left the west coast we thought they were finished. Then we discovered the late John Henry Eden here in the Capital region. We have never taken a full stock of possible Enclave military and geopolitical might."

"Well there is one thing we can do as of this moment," Janice Yearling said as she twirled a pencil in her hand.

"What would you suggest," asked Elder Lyons.

"There are known former Enclave agents in the wasteland," commented the logistical head of BIOS, "they have been given carte blanche access to everything possible to non – Brotherhood of Steel personnel, yet we have no gains as an organization."

"Are you seriously suggesting rounding up former Enclave agents," Elder Lyons was appalled, "even the two doctors that saved my life?"

"These Enclave agents within the region are our biggest security threats and a wealth of information," stated Yearling as a matter of fact, "we have already done this with a former agent of the Commonwealth's SRB."

"The Commonwealth's what," asked Owyn Lyons in confusion.

"It should in your memos from the past few months," commented Bael, "John Harkness has been an amazing source of information as a former agent for the Synth Retention Bureau."

"Based on your reports he came willingly once protection from the Commonwealth was afforded him," said Elder Rothchild, who was up to date on the memos, "the collection and interrogation of Enclave agents will be anything but voluntary."f

"They are not the most forth coming with information, our trust should not be with them or even the locals," rejoined Yearling with a calm but firm voice, she didn't even acknowledge Hannah Newton's stare, "pressure must be applied for a proper outcome."

"Scribe Yearling, your ability at gathering information for the necessity of this chapter's survival is profound and direct," extolled Elder Rothchild, "however, coercion and torture are not measures this chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel will use. Is this clear, no torture will be accepted by this chapter."

"Aqua pura, Elder Reginald Rothchild," answered Yearling.

"I don't care how you talk to other BIOS members, but in this room we will refrain from colloquial forms of speech," reprimanded the Elder.

"Elders Lyons and Rothchild, I'd like to bring attention my report if you will," Scribe Peabody pulled out some papers, "I think it is a vital concern for the future of the Brotherhood in the Capital."

"I have read your report, yes, but I feel we need to collect more secure intelligence on the Enclave," said Lyons as Elder Rothchild nodded, "perhaps if you were to do an inventory on our current supplies so we have a better understanding of where we stand."

"With respect, Elder Lyons, that maybe too little too late," replied Peabody, "our energy weapons are at their lowest conditions to date when it comes to high end lasers. We can not field a force based on just plasma!"

"You report has been noted, Scribe Peabody," said Elder Rothchild, "and yes, Scribe Bowditch, we have read your report as well."

"And yet no one has mentioned the need to reinforce positions in our outposts," Bowditch leaned back and folded his arms together, "if the Enclave are back than these outposts are no match to air assaults from vertibirds or naval based artillery."

"How quick can we gain appropriate defenses for the outposts," asked Elder Lyons.

"It will take sometime to gain the ability to rig the automated turrets with the anti – ballistic programming, along with placement," stated Bowditch, "but by the end of the month, month and a half, all outposts will be protected from an air assault."

"This is ridiculous! Defense can be worked on but weaponry reports need to be more detailed, really," Peabody was rhetorical, his questioning tone was due to indignation.

"The outposts are the weakest parts of our organization and the first to be acted upon by the Enclave when they attempt to retake areas. We have taken their strong holds at Raven Rock, the Sat Comm Array, and Adams Air Force Base. They may seek to make similar gains," said Elder Rothchild.

"The best defense is a good offense," reassured the Proctor for the Order of the Sword.

"It is best to fire your weapon with both eyes open," stated Sentinel Cross, inserting herself firmly in the conversation for the first time.

"Enough, there will be no pissing matches here, leave that to the west coast!" Scolded Elder Lyons with a firm look on his wizened face.

There was silence in the room. Since his return from Vault 101, Lyons' mood and temperamental definitely changed. A man of virtually unlimited patience was now quick to act and dismiss actions and goals. Seeing this in an open meeting left his Proctors, Sentinels, and Star Paladin questioning his ability. However, no thoughts were fully formed as a Knight from Citadel Control entered the room. He passed a paper to Elder Lyons, who in turn passed it to Rothchild.

"I must put this meeting on hold, an incident has occurred," said Lyons as he pushed away from the table.

"Does this incident concern the reports from the Point Lookout outpost," asked Sentinel Lyons.

"Star Paladin Bael and Scribe Yearling, please stay behind," said Elder Lyons, "Paladin Bruce and Scribe Jameson, you as well."

The board room cleared, leaving the four members and two Elders, "what is this about," asked Bael.

"First, the good news," Lyons nodded to Rothchild as they passed a rolled up scroll to Jameson and Bruce, "in times like these we can't really afford all the pomp and ceremony that we once had on the west coast. Pardon Reginald and I for this austere promotion. Congratulations, Head Scribe Elizabeth Jameson."

"Thank you, Elders Lyons and Rothchild," Jameson showed gratitude but looked serious enough.

"This can't possibly be right," said Paladin Bruce as he waved his paper around.

"It is if you are willing to abide by the terms," said Elder Lyons with a smile.

"I refuse to take away two prosthesis from any man or woman more needing of it than I," said Bruce firmly as his eyes squinted in an attempt to read Lyons mind, "however, I can readily agree to the other terms."

"So be it, Head Scribe Jameson, Star Paladin Bael, Scribe Yearling," intoned Lyons as he licked his lips, "I present you Head Paladin, William Bruce, and mentor to Author Maxson."

There were small applause and congratulations given onto now Head Paladin Bruce as he replied, "thank you all, but there are more important issues that need to be addressed."

Rothchild rustled the paper handed to the Elders by the Knight, "Citadel Control received word four hours ago that Knight Jamie Bors and Operative Quintus Schieber failed to report in to the outpost at the Republic or the Centurions for twenty – four hours; further more the small force at the Republic reported seeing a fiery ball in the horizon."

"Four hours since they were supposed to report in, these are my men!" Cristano Bael was outraged that he didn't have this information sooner.

"Calm down, Star Paladin," ordered Rothchild.

"I have two men that could still be alive out in the wilderness," Bael was up on his feet, "we need to mobilize a response team. I need a vertibird and several Knights."

"Enough Cristano!" Exclaimed Owyn Lyons, "we can not do anything at this time, I will not jeopardize another vertibird or pilot, is that clear?"

"I will not sit by idly as my Operatives die out there in the unexplored areas," Bael had calmed his voice and sat down, but his fists were still clenched.

"What the Elders aren't saying in so many words but inferring heavily is that Knight Bors and Operative Schieber are dead. However, our operatives are known for their survival," Janice Yearling was shrewd and direct, "what needs to be looked into is who took down our vertibird."

"Why must you always go right to direct aggression from an external threat," commented the newly appointed Head Scribe," it could have been equipment failure."

"That is unlikely because they were maintained by Enclave engineers," rejoined Scribe Yearling, "and it is my job to think of the worst case scenarios, Head Scribe Jameson."

"We are not ready to admit this was an act of aggression by the Enclave,," stated Lyons firmly, "I want options on my table in twenty – four hours people."

Bael whispered into Yearling's ear so the Elders could not hear, "bit coincidental that our vertibird gets taken out as we discover the return of the Enclave."

"I don't believe in coincidences," answered Yearling as she closed her files.

"Looks like there is a position open as the Proctor to the Order of the Quill," pushed Bael.

"It looks like the Elders are trying to curb you with the appointment of Bruce as Head Paladin," said Yearling as she stood up, "and blind ambition offers no beneficial rewards."

Closer to the building in the middle of the ancient parking lot stood hollowed out vertibirds and fallen bodies. Trip reported that there were no life signs. Quintus Schieber checked the bodies around the south facing side of the building, the armor was only weathered for a few years that had been exposed to the elements. Burnt flesh tightly adhered to skeletons were in all the power armor and scientist suits.

Bors sat down on a vertibird, right next to a curled up Enclave officer. He removed the officer's hat and shook out the ashes. The building was old, way older than most technology and architecture that the Brotherhood of Steel dealt with on a regular basis. The architecture was similar to that of the D.C. Ruins, columns and vaulted ceilings. He guessed it was from the Twentieth Century, the height of American power and prowess.

"I think we can salvage the servo from one of these sets of Enclave power armor," Quin opened up the leg of an MKII power armor to expose the dead burnt limb underneath.

"What the hell do you think could do this," asked Bors as he referenced the many bodies that littered the ground.

Removing the servo with a tug and a pull, Schieber looked over the rough piece of machinery, "if you don't know, the chances of me knowing are dramatically less. I'm used to bullets, lasers, welding, and woodwork; whatever did this left the majority of equipment behind and caused an awful amount of hurt on the Enclave."

"What the hell is this place," breathed Bors as he looked to the old building with ancient white columns and a dilapidated ceiling, _and what secrets do you hold_.

**A/N:** Thus concludes Trials of Diplomacy. Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did writing; I'm sorry it took me so long to write this chapter, but it has been my longest one to date. I plan on writing the next installment already, though my method to write long hand and transcribe to word documents will continue. Any and all ideas can be sent to me via review or private message.

Once again, thank you for reading; please review!


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